


Sleeping With Ghosts

by MasterD1mwitt



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-05-30 00:04:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 34,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15084665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterD1mwitt/pseuds/MasterD1mwitt
Summary: "Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth." Inspired by a conversation I had with a friend, a story about Noatak that explores how his past, beliefs, and identity as Amon would have been shaped if he was transgender.





	1. Brother

The day Tarrlok had been born was the best day of Noatak's life. One of his earliest memories, he remembered wandering cautiously into his mother's room after the midwife had helped deliver the infant, which suckled peacefully in his mother's arms. He had curled up next to his mother's side after she invited him up on the bed, and observed Tarrlok with curiosity. “This is your new baby brother,” she explained in a tired, but loving tone, “you must always take care of him, no matter what.”

Noatak nodded as if he understood, but the full gravity of what he was agreeing to eluded him. “Would you like to hold him?” his mother asked, and again Noatak nodded. Gently she showed him how to properly support Tarrlok, then let Noatak cradle the newborn, who wasn't pleased to have his first meal interrupted. The weight in his arms felt right, and Noatak couldn't help but smile down at Tarrlok; he would never let anything bad happen to his baby brother. His mother complimented him, told Noatak he was a natural and that he was going to be a good big sister. Only one of those made his pride swell.

Everything after that became a blur lost to time, his life little snippets until his memory became stronger. He remembered the day that he learned he could bend; he had been playing in front of the house while his mother sewed in her chair and a year old Tarrlok sat by her feet, playing with one of Noatak's dolls. Hands full of snow, Noatak intended to toss them at his little brother to get the boy's attention, but with the motion of his arms the whole snowbank behind him surged forward and swallowed up Tarrlok. In surprise Tarrlok started crying, then crawled into his mother's lap for comfort. As she rubbed her youngest child's back comfortingly she scolded her eldest, who sincerely apologized before becoming excited when realization sank in. Energetically Noatak rushed over to his father who had witnessed the scene and beamed, “Papa, I can bend!”

Snidely Yakone brushed him off, saying, “It doesn't matter if you can bend, girls are only good for healing.” As Yakone walked over to his wife, Noatak stood there, crestfallen. The dismissal hurt more that he was called a girl and he didn't know why. Tears pricking his eyes, Noatak stomped further away from the house and tore out his hair bands. His mother sighed when she saw him return with his hair down; her child was going through a phase where they would tear off any clothes she said they looked pretty in. If she didn't console Noatak before he started throwing a fit, then he would undress and run around naked until his mother could catch him. She found it as amusing as it was annoying, and eventually learned that Noatak was appeased by androgynous fashion.

Although his mother had hoped that he would outgrow his wild streak, as Noatak got older, his feelings only became stronger, at times overwhelming his tiny body. All of his girl dolls he'd discard and let Tarrlok take, much to the latter's delight. Initially he would sit in his room and contemplate them, the urge to destroy their femininity strong, but as he tugged at the ribbons holding their braids in place, Noatak would be overcome with guilt at the prospect of defacing his mother's hard work. Tarrlok had no such qualms with playing with them, finding them more intriguing than the abstract representations of animals he received as dolls, and cherished every toy Noatak passed off onto him.

“So pretty,” Tarrlok cooed as he inspected the newest doll’s simplistic blue dress. An older one made out of worn fabric sat in his lap, and Noatak watched his little brother with a warm expression. “Big sissy,” Tarrlok eventually said, turning around, “why don't you like playing with your pretty dolls?” He was more observant than he appeared, had noticed the faces his older sibling would make when receiving certain toys.

It wasn’t that Noatak hated them perse, but upon reflection when he was older he would realize his dislike came from it being expected of him to like them. At the time, Noatak simply grumbled, “I don't like pretty things.” Indeed, all the times the other village children would play he'd sit and watch the boys, wishing he could be one of them. Noatak’s growing feelings of being different surmounted to the eve of his sixth birthday when he tossed and turned on his bedroll, staring up at the ceiling of his room as he listened to the wind howling outside. He would guess that it was close to midnight, but the child could not sleep. To him, it felt like the weight of the whole world was on his little shoulders; for a long time now he had been brooding over something that seemed out of his control, yet burdened on him regardless of his own feelings.

His hand ran over his chest under his blanket; it was flat now, but his parents said that he would have a bust like his mother's when he came of age. When he ‘became a woman’, but the thought of that made something deep inside ache for some reason. He realized that he didn't think of himself as a girl, despite how his parents had been raising him; no, Noatak wanted to be like his little brother, Tarrlok. Noatak rolled over onto his side to watch his brother sleep in his own bedroll; they looked the same on the outside, but his father said that Tarrlok had different parts that made him a boy. It was all vague and confusing, so Noatak tended to ignore whatever his parents said about things of that nature.

Despite being a heavy sleeper, Tarrlok must have felt Noatak's gaze on him as he blinked his eyes open and groggily mumbled, “Big sissy?” The other had begun to dislike the nickname, but preferred it over his birth name, so he let his brother continue, “Why aren't you asleep?”

“Can't sleep,” Noatak answered as the other rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, “can't stop thinking about something.”

His interest piqued, Tarrlok sat up and asked, “What is it?”

Awkwardly Noatak opened his mouth, then shut it, his words failing him. He then turned to face away from his little brother and grunted. The feelings were there, but he didn't have the words to express them. He almost decided to say nevermind, but when Tarrlok crawled on top of him the older sibling sighed and mumbled, “Tarrlok, you know how Papa says that you're his son and I'm his daughter?” 

“Yeah?”

“What if...I don't feel like a girl? What if I want to be a boy?” His chest felt so heavy as the sentence escaped his lips, as the question hung in the air, but Tarrlok shrugged.

“What's stopping you?” the little boy asked sincerely, and Noatak stared at him, analyzing him. Tarrlok was still too young, too naive to understand the labels that were imposed on them.

Instinctively he said, “Papa says that I don't have a boy's body,” but the words felt hollow, like an excuse. He had begun asking his parents certain questions, but what they thought was their child being curious about the human body, was Noatak sorting through his feelings, forming his identity.

“You look just like me,” Tarrlok reasoned, “and I'm not a girl!” The two siblings giggled softly, and for the first time that night Noatak smiled. After hugging the other, he said,

“I'd really like it if you considered me your big brother. Do you think you can do that, Tarrlok?” The younger brother nodded eagerly, so they both got situated on the same bedroll to share, Tarrlok snuggling into the hollow of Noatak's back. Right as he closed his eyes, the other tugged on his sleeve.

“Big brother?” He asked; Noatak's heart soared. “What's going to be your boy name?”

Although the question caught him off guard, it was something that he had also dwelled on. There was one name that had been on his mind for some time, lingered in the back of his consciousness after he heard it once in passing. As he became more detached from his birth name, Noatak became more confident in this one; and yet, he'd never spoken it aloud in fear it wasn't right-

“Noatak,” he murmured, and saying his name felt natural. “I'm Noatak.”


	2. Boyhood

The first year after Noatak came out had been one of the hardest in his transition, with his parents needing to adjust to so much. He had proclaimed proudly at breakfast his new name and his boyhood, with mixed results. Tarrlok clapped enthusiastically as his mother stared at him blankly and his father chuckled. “I'm serious!” Noatak pouted, his hands balled into fists at his side. Although he hadn't known what to expect, it still upset him that his father thought he was just fooling around.

“Don't be silly,” Yakone replied as his sneering smile faltered, “You're a girl, and your name is-”

“Noatak!” Tarrlok interrupted, indignant. Realizing the rudeness of his outburst, he then glowered and sank back in his seat. “Last night he told me he wanted to be a boy,” Tarrlok added more softly.

Torn between her husband and her children, Noatak's mother sighed. Noatak stared back at her with scared eyes on the verge of heartbreak, so she said, “Sweetheart, there is a difference between being a boy and wanting to be a boy. Are you sure you're not just confused?” Although she didn't intend to offend, her question still had the same effect on Noatak.

Even though he was still so young, he knew that this felt right, that he had never felt like a girl. Determinedly, Noatak replied, “I'm sure, Mama. I don't want to be a girl.” The rest of the meal was eaten in awkward silence, then the two brothers went to their room to play, for the sun would not rise for almost another two months. They still needed food, though, and after a few minutes Noatak heard his father leave through the front door to go fishing and his mother sigh. Although Noatak didn't regret his admission, he worried that it would change the way his mother would see him, and was only able to halfheartedly play with Tarrlok as he dwelled on his worries. Over the coming days, Noatak avoided his parents and there was a tenseness between them.

What made the transition easier was Tarrlok’s unwavering acceptance, unquestioning due to his elementary understanding of gender identity and expression. He always called Noatak the right name and pronouns, and eventually their parents followed his lead, although they weren't perfect for some time. Neither confronted Noatak directly, however, and that much he appreciated as he himself adjusted to being called a new name. It felt unreal at first, as if being Noatak had been an escapist dream, but every morning when he woke up to Tarrlok calling him ‘big brother’, he remembered that was who he was, and he felt a peace in himself. By the time dawn broke, heralding spring, Noatak thought that everything was going to be okay.

One morning Noatak woke up especially early, and heard his parents speaking in hushed voices in their room. Ever the curious one, carefully he tip toed over to the shared wall and pressed his ear against it when he heard his old name be dropped. “I just don't know what to do,” he heard his mother say, and his heart fell as he listened, “she still wants to be called Noatak. I know that sometimes girls like to act like boys, but this is different; she actually wants to be a boy. I don't know if this is some kind of a phase.”

Yakone listened as intently to his wife as Noatak was; in his time in Republic City, he had met all sorts of people pushed to the fringes of society. “In my experience,” he began, “people who deviate like this tend to grow up into wretched things.” He viewed their condition as pathetic, and the individuals themselves nothing more than exotic partners in bed and freaks outside of it.

“I don't know…” Noatak's mother replied, brows furrowed deep in thought. “I just want her...him to be happy. This seems to do that."

Yakone would not openly defy his wife, and so he said, “Okay, Tapeesa.” He then held her hand and stared into her namesake, her forget-me-not violet eyes. They continued to talk, but Noatak backed away from the wall, feeling betrayed. He thought that they would understand, come to accept. He feared now that he thought wrong, and all he could think of was how badly he had to get away.

Going over to his little brother, Noatak roused Tarrlok from his sleep. Before the latter could say anything, he urged, “Come play with me.” Groggily Tarrlok nodded, following his big brother outside after they got dressed. Due to living on the edge of the village and being isolated from the other children, the two brothers mostly played with each other, exploring the wilderness surrounding them. As the brave leader Noatak rushed onwards, plowing through fields of snow as Tarrlok followed in his wake the best he could on little legs. Together they frolicked under the endless summer sun, the sky as clear a blue as their excited eyes, and Noatak's chest felt like it would burst with how light it felt.

Eventually they came to a stop at the crest of a hill, laying down to rest on an outcrop. Living more inland, some of the snow would melt during the summer, and modest flowers and lichens would occasionally grow on exposed rock. Glancing over at a patch of wildflowers, Tarrlok pointed them out to his brother and said, “Noa, we should pick some for Mama!” At the mention of their mother, Noatak's demeanor soured as he recalled the conversation he had overheard. Tilting his head, Tarrlok asked, “What's wrong?”

Frowning, Noatak quietly stood up and began pacing. After a moment of contemplation, he stopped and softly confessed, “I wish I was like you.”

“What do you mean?” Tarrlok stared at him with big blue eyes that he didn't have the heart to meet, and so his gaze fell on the valley below them.

Awkwardly Noatak shifted on his feet and mumbled, “Like, a real boy.”

“But you are a boy, Noa,” his little brother stated simply, bushy brows furrowing in confusion.

He realized that Tarrlok’s accepting nature was in large part due to his young brain not being able to fully understand why Noatak wouldn't be normal. “Why do you say that?” Noatak asked hesitantly.

“Because you say you are one,” Tarrlok chirped as he rose to his feet. “You're a boy because you like being a boy, just like I do!” Noatak couldn't help but giggle at the other boy's determined expression, and then Tarrlok tackled him in a big hug. “I love my big brother!” he shouted, then squealed in delight as Noatak picked him up and swung him around in the air. Once Tarrlok’s feet landed on solid ground, he then raced his brother down the hill, running as fast as he could. Even with the brief head start, Noatak was able to easily beat him, using his developing bending to slide over the snow. In response Tarrlok stopped in his tracks and pouted, “Not fair! I can't bend!”

Rolling his eyes, Noatak used his bending to make his little brother slide the rest of the way down the slope, causing the latter to giggle at the sensation. When they crashed into each other, they fell to the ground in fits of laughter as a flurry of snow cascaded around them. After their excitement died down, Noatak turned his head to face his brother, who was just out of reach. Being at his brother's side was the best feeling in the world, he decided; he’d never let it go. “I can't wait until you're a bender,” he said. It would just be them in their own world, together.

Tarrlok seemed indifferent to the idea, and replied, “I'm okay if I'm like Mama and Papa and can't bend. You'll protect me with your bending!” He wholeheartedly believed it, his adoration for his older brother knowing no limits. Even though the sun did not dip below the horizon, internally they knew it was time to return home to eat and rest, and followed their tracks back home, Noatak's heart feeling heavy again. As Tarrlok rushed through the front door into their mother's arms, babbling about their adventure, Noatak was relieved to notice that their father was out again.

Sensing that her eldest was troubled, Tapeesa encouraged Tarrlok to go to his room to clean up, giving her and Noatak some privacy. “Sweetheart, what's wrong?” she asked in a soothing tone, kneeling down to smooth stray strands of Noatak's hair, and be eye level with him; solemnly he avoided her gaze. When she pulled him into a hug, however, his icy exterior melted.

“...Mama?” he tentatively began, burying his face in his mother's chest. Her scent made him feel safe. “Do you think there's something wrong with me?”

Realizing what he meant, Noatak's mother stroked his back and immediately replied, “Of course not, sweetheart!” It broke her heart that Noatak would ever fear her rejection. “You are my child, and nothing will ever change that. I'll always love you...Noatak.” Tapeesa knew that she would get used to calling her eldest by his new name, if it meant getting such sweet smiles every time.


	3. Changed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some consideration, I've decided to include warnings since I write about heavy stuff, so content warning: deals with gender dysphoria and mentions transphobia

Quietly Tarrlok watched his brother sit on the edge of a cliff from afar. In the past he would listen in on the other as he sat in his room, kneeling in front of the door with his ear pressed against the woodgrain, but this was Noatak's new moping spot. The wind was unrelentless and tore at their clothes, but Noatak didn't care. He hated being in that house; hated the fake smiles of his parents, the facade of a happy family. Tarrlok knew that, but there wasn't much he could do; his brother had been growing increasingly distant as the years passed. No longer did they go on adventures in the frozen wilderness, those had stopped as their training intensified. As did Noatak's caring nature, his protection of his little brother twisted into a reluctant obligation as he turned bitter to the world.

As hopeless as he felt, Tarrlok knew he had to do anything he could to ease Noatak's troubles, and walked up to him. “Leave me alone,” he grumbled, unappreciative of the company. When his little brother didn't go, Noatak sighed. “What do you want?”

“I want to help you,” Tarrlok said as he sat down next to Noatak. Even with his coat on, the bitter cold seeped into his little body, so Tarrlok huddled closer to his big brother. “I know you're upset about something,” he continued, “just please talk to me.” Just like they used to when they were little; he missed their openness, his brother's trust. Things weren't the same after their childhood had been stolen.

Refusing to look at the other boy, Noatak stared down into the valley as he considered the other's offer. His brother meant well, but Tarrlok couldn't understand what he was going though, how trapped he felt. Although what Yakone had done to them had definitely left it's mark, it wasn't the only thing that bothered him. As he matured, he became increasingly more aware that he was different, as if every day the world was closing in, growing more bleak. All of the boys his age were starting to grow bigger, have their voices drop; Noatak knew that he wouldn't go through the same change. No one could save him from his father or his body, and that left him hopeless and broody. The clock was ticking, his time almost up; so many days Noatak wished that the giant crevice in the earth he was looking at would swallow him whole.

“...Mom says I'm becoming a woman,” he confessed, voice heavily laden with anguish. “I...I started bleeding down there and that's what she said it means.” Blinking away a tear, he spat, “And what really bothered me is how she smiled, like this was something to be proud of.” Perhaps she had only been trying to calm him, but the notion of his body changing in such a way mortified him, no matter what phrasing was used.

Tarrlok tried to rub Noatak's back comfortingly, but his brother scooted away, so he instead said, “You're my brother, Noatak, and nothing will change that.” Tarrlok could tell that the other was still feeling conflicted, and it tore him up that he couldn't make everything better for his best friend.

So badly Noatak wanted to believe Tarrlok, and yet... “I won't have a boy's body, Tarrlok,” he retorted, “You won't get periods, you're going to get a deep voice and be a man, and I…” Subconsciously he pulled his knees closer to his chest and hugged them to hide his developing breasts. After letting out a shaky breath, Noatak composed himself and mumbled, “You don't know what it's like to feel trapped in your own skin, or to look at your reflection and hate what you see.”

“I can try,” Tarrlok replied as he wrapped his arms around his big brother. He wanted so desperately to understand Noatak's issues; to him the other didn't have a condition, Noatak just was. He didn't know why other people couldn't so readily accept his brother's identity like they did with him, why Noatak had to be treated differently for the body he was born with. Tarrlok didn't know what it felt like to be on the receiving end, that was true, but he could see how much it affected Noatak to be shunned and ridiculed, to be at war with his body. “Grown ups just like to think they know more than you do,” he reassured, “but they can still be wrong. You're my big brother no matter what the adults say!”

It got Noatak to smile genuinely, just a little; Tarrlok had still retained some of his innocence. Their bloodbending lessons had yet to taint his mind; thinking about them made Noatak frown and become morose again. His relationship with his father was unsteady, unpredictable, and when the other spewed toxicity it seemed to seep and fester in his soul. “...when father learned about what happened, he laughed at me,” Noatak admitted in a tone barely about a whisper, “and then when he saw that I'd been crying he told me that boys don't cry. I don't know why he can't just make up his mind on whether or not to call me his son.” He knew why deep down, but he wanted Yakone to admit it out loud, to finally tell the truth for once in his life. That he never considered Noatak his son in the first place.

Long ago Noatak had given up on his father fully accepting him, but how conditional Yakone's love was still hurt sometimes. With a bitter laugh, he added, “You know, he didn't even care if I could bend until he saw that I was better than you.” It was ironic, Yakone fully intending on just grooming Tarrlok to be his tool of revenge, but after Noatak had begged his father to train him too, Yakone begrudgingly obliged under the presumption Noatak would fail miserably and never ask again. Noatak had to prove that he could waterbend ‘like a boy’, and after outshining a ‘real’ boy was he only then validated by his father, on the condition he met Yakone's expectations. Noatak muttered, “I'm his perfect, prodigal son when I do what he says, but…”

But when he failed or became defiant his father would berate him, bemoan about how foolish he was for thinking a female could ever measure up to the skill of a male bender. It didn't matter that Noatak failed far less often than his little brother, for Yakone was no less harsh; it taught him to no longer verbally object to how Tarrlok was treated. All frustrations Noatak had he'd passive aggressively take out on his family, or hold in until it was time to train in bloodbending, and then he could make some poor miserable creature hurt as much as he did. Feel as weak and powerless.

Tarrlok knew all this, had watched Noatak wither under the pressure; he watched his older now with sad eyes as words failed him. He felt so weak, and hated it, hated that he couldn't stand up for Noatak like the other once did for him. Tarrlok hated that he couldn't even be a better bender to take some of Yakone's attention off of Noatak, but most of all he hated that deep down he felt relieved to not have to deal with the brunt of his father's wrath and obsession. Noatak still needed comfort, though, so Tarrlok squeezed his brother with a tight hug and said, “Don't listen to him, Noa, he's just like the other grown ups. They're all wrong about you. You're...you're going to get to be a man, I just know it.”

Too tired to keep dwelling on his dark thoughts, Noatak resigned himself to the gesture and let Tarrlok’s warmth seep into him. It made him feel less hollow as they watched the snow storm in silence, but there was still a dull emptiness deep down that love could not reach, no matter how tightly Tarrlok held his brother. It always remained in the pit of his chest, replacing his heart, only kept at bay momentarily by words but never made whole. The day that words were no longer enough, was the day that Noatak was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I revised the first two chapters and added a new one as I felt like I what I had written of Noatak's childhood was too short.


	4. Burn

With a groan, Noatak heaved himself up the final stairs to his apartment. After fumbling with the key momentarily, he finally unlocked it and shoved the door open. Just a little bit further and he'd be able to sit down, he thought as he limped to the bathroom, tracking blood behind him. He then collapsed onto the tile floor, and with a groan he reached towards the cabinet underneath the sink and pulled out his first aid kit. Wincing as he sat up, Noatak undid his sash and parted his robes to assess the damage.

It was a regular occurrence for him to come home in such a state, a cut here, a puncture there. As a mercenary it was a given occupational hazard that he had to deal with, as people for the most part didn't take kindly to someone roughing them up. Although he would do his best to avoid contract killings, Noatak still didn't feel better than any thug for hire, but such was the position he found himself in. Tonight's current ache was a gash across his stomach and another on his thigh from a mark slicing at him, both large, but shallow and not life threatening.

Gritting his teeth, Noatak pressed a rubbing alcohol soaked rag to his abdominal wound, enduring the stinging sensation so it would be sanitized. With heavily lidded eyes he observed the pale cloth turn crimson as it became saturated with blood, then he got out a roll of bandages and slowly applied them around his torso. After jerking down his pants and doing the same for his leg injury, he rested his head against the cabinet and exhaled sharply. His bathroom and his life were a mess, and both he had to put back together alone. So easily he could have closes his eyes and passed out on the dingy tiles, but he had to be up early the next morning for a new assignment, so Noatak mustered the strength to push himself up on his feet. In the dirty mirror he got a good look at himself.

Noatak still hated what he saw.

He had thought that by transitioning he finally find a peace in himself, but while his new body he welcomed, his face had grown into the one which haunted him in his sleep. All he saw in his reflection was Yakone's visage staring back at him, reminding him of their undeniable kinship, no matter how hard he tried to forget. It reminded him of all his failures, how he was a failure of a human just like his father, of all the people he had let down and pushed away. For fifteen years Noatak had been running away from himself, but his ghosts kept finding him. Amun, Aman, all aliases he now went by on the job; he didn’t even know who he was anymore. With a growl, he banged his fist into the mirror with enough force to shatter it, along with his reflection.

Punching the mirror wasn't enough to placate him; something had come over Noatak. With a new, dark energy he stormed out of his bathroom and kicked the closest object over, his coffee table, before pacing and rambling manically. His mind was going a thousand miles an hour; something in him had snapped and all of the emotions he had been suppressing were flooding his consciousness, dark thoughts racing across his mind. Nothing in his life was left for him to live for, he didn't know what kept him going. Noatak was a fraud; as much as he claimed to despise his father, he ended following in his footsteps and becoming a mercenary sought after for his bloodbending. Every time he bent it made him feel dirty, and he was dirty for accepting the money others gave him to use his bending on their victims. None of what he went through would have happened had he not been a bender; Noatak was tortured just by being himself.

Wanting to destroy himself, Noatak growled as he tore at his clothes until he found his only keepsake from his childhood, a picture of himself and his brother. They looked so damn happy; once, they were. He had half the mind to just tear it in half, preserve only the innocent face of Tarrlok, but then he spotted his matchbox in the heap of items that had fallen off the coffee table. He picked out a match a struck it, and it wasn't until the flames started licking the photograph that he snapped out of his possession and tried to set it out. The fire had consumed nearly half of his face in the photo, the corner the flames had touched black and distorted; it gave him an idea.

Soon Noatak would be thirty and he had nothing to show for it, just an empty apartment and no one who would miss him if he disappeared. He decided that he didn't want any more birthdays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoyed it!


	5. Escapism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, as a special treat I'm posting a chapter that I've been sitting on for a while

“I don’t care if Mr. Sato is a nonbender, he’s still part of the elite ruling class,” Amon’s lieutenant grumbled.

“You do not have to like him,” Amon returned smoothly, “we just need him sympathetic enough to our cause to continue acting as our benefactor.” They walked down one of the many halls of the Sato mansion together, leaving from a successful meeting with the businessman that had been predominantly about financials. What had been discussed was the future plans for The Equalists, the possibility of funds to go towards a base for the underground group; Sato would draft blueprints for their next meeting if they continued to show promise. Despite still being largely unknown by the majority of Republic City, Amon was proud of how far they had come, proud of himself and his lieutenant.

At first, they were just two men occupying the same space. Sharing an apartment and eventually ideas as they recovered from their own tragedies. But, as The Equalists grew to more than two individuals, Amon came to see his lieutenant as an anchor in his new identity. It wasn't hard casting off his old guise, having been playing roles for a long time now, but the transition was...more believable with another to hear the story. When he fabricated his tragic past to the masses, the other wept with the crowd. And when they were alone, and Amon was ruminating over scripts and plans spread tangible across his bedroom floor, he swore his lieutenant gazed upon him from the doorway with something akin to adoration.

“Do keep in mind as well,” Amon thought aloud as they stepped out into the cool night air, “there is a glass ceiling between the working and upper classes; most nonbenders can’t move upwards in societal rank, but enough are allowed elite status so that everyone can pretend they’re not oppressed. Mr. Sato will never truly benefit from his position in society, as evidenced by his wife’s assassination.” His lieutenant merely huffed in response, begrudgingly yielding to his leader’s eloquently spoken take. That was how many nights were spent between them, discussing politics -although more often than not Amon rambled and his lieutenant listened- and little more. There was no room for personal anecdotes, Amon made sure of that, went quiet if asked about what came before this life. He could tell that the other man was curious, would feel inquisitive eyes on him as they shared modest meals by lamplight in silence, but Amon was not at liberty to speak the truth, and so he feigned trauma.

“After everything you’ve been through, Amon, you didn't have to take me in, and I can never show you how grateful I am that you did,” his lieutenant murmured one day while they were planning the next Equalist meeting. He had only caught glimpses of the fabled scars, saw the pale whorls at the edge of plush lips whenever Amon lifted his mask the slightest bit to eat.

Sometimes, he'd briefly wonder how soft those lips were.

The comment caught Amon off guard, and he lost his train of thought. They had been sitting on the living room floor discussing times and locations when the utterance came out, and Amon suddenly felt hyper aware of how close the other was sitting across from him. The heat the man radiated, how his strong hands rested just a breath away from Amon’s, of his own heart beating heavily in his chest. It then occurred to him just how close emotionally they had become as well, how over the years he had fostered unconditional devotion in his lieutenant. True, Amon did not ask his partner about his childhood or his personal life, but he had taken care of the other man when he was sick, stitched his wounds shut after run ins with bender debtors, but most of all given him something to believe in. They were equals in their mission, Amon had made him the executioner of his vision. Amon would listen to his lieutenant’s woes about the injustices of the current system and parrot back words of empathy, promises of revolution, because it allowed Amon to pretend that he was a good person, that his intentions were pure martyrdom, just like he used to pretend that he was a good big brother.

Eyes focused on anywhere but his lieutenant, Amon mumbled out a response and returned to their plans. Most of the time meetings went well, but as of late The Equalists were beginning to draw opposition as they gained notoriety among the underworld. Mostly it was in the form of harassment from the bender gangs, although Amon recently had the pleasure of a police raid as their ranks grew in size. That night the assembly went according to plan, until the end when several thugs began making a ruckus outside the condemned building The Equalists were gathered in, attempting to intimidate them. As the bender gang banged on the door and windows, Amon shouted at them, but all he earned from them was snickering. Unease spread across the room, and Amon's lieutenant looked at him expectantly; it was time to take the fight to the benders.

He had been training his new following in self defense for moments like this; no longer were The Equalists purely an activist group. As one of the thugs blasted the front door down with fire, several Equalist recruits got into position behind Amon as he closed the distance between his group and their attackers. Although they had numbers on their side, a few dozen members not including Amon and his lieutenant, most of them could put up little fight against the hardened made men, most of which Amon recognized as hired muscle from one of his last employers; they did not see through his mask, and once more taunted him. “This is your last warning to break up your gathering and get back to your homes, and nobody has to get hurt!” the burliest of the bunch shouted. When none of the revolutionaries budged, he motioned for the other hirelings to open fire.

Immediately Amon responded by charging at the leader; his lieutenant, and two women who would later go on to become some of his captains followed suit, attacking two nearby firebenders with a combination of martial arts. The rest of The Equalists either soon joined in or scattered to the corners of the room to avoid the unfolding brawl, having to be careful between bursts of fire and the earth upending underneath their feet. The head mercenary lashed at Amon with ropes of freezing water, which, while he was able to dodge, kept him at an arm’s length from the other man. Beside him, Amon’s lieutenant was slamming wooden kali sticks against his opponent’s chest to incapacitate him, only to then be stricken in the side by another’s flaming fist and sent to the ground. Witnessing his partner of over three years be beaten down made something inside Amon click, and his senses blurred as his more basal instincts kicked in. By catching the waterbender off guard, he quickly overpowered the thug, jabbing him in the throat and then sidestepping behind him to force him down into a kneeling position; Amon didn’t come to until he heard the bender yowling as if in pain. His fingers were pressed into the other’s scalp, his thumb between dark brows; he had done this once before, but he had no intention of ever repeating the act in front of his followers.

Bile rose in Amon’s throat as he realized that the rush he had felt was from bloodbending his quarry. The room had since gone silent and watched as the waterbender slumped over, and Amon could feel the rest of the gang’s hearts beat faster in fear. Eventually the thug came alive, gasping, “What did you do to me?” When on his feet, he motioned as if attempting to bend, but the color drained from his face as it failed.

Amon said the first thing that came to mind, shouting, “I have the power to take one’s bending! Leave now, or the rest of your cronies are next!” As he spoke, the rest of the benders fleed, and the now broken mercenary retreated after them. Over the coming months, many would question him about this event, and he’d elaborate in time with grand falsehoods and later demonstrations, but at the moment all he cared for was the wellbeing of his underlings, making sure every attending Equalist was accounted for, first by helping his lieutenant to his feet. The man could take a punch, Amon would give him that, although his clothes were burned beyond repair at the impact area; at least they would soon all be receiving new uniforms. Of course, Amon made his subordinate take it easy as he recovered, which frustrated the latter.

“I’m fine, sir, really,” he grumbled as Amon held an ice pack to the healing bruise on his ribs.

Usually Amon was unfazed by any form of nudity, but he kept finding his hands yearning to trail over the yellowed, sensitive skin exposed to him. With a click of his tongue, he replied, “For someone who’s fine, you sure do complain a lot about having to sleep on the couch.” The comment got his lieutenant to be quiet, but he could tell that the other man was growing antsy from so much rest. Once satisfied that the swelling had been abated, Amon got up to return the pack to the icebox as his lieutenant pulled his shirt back over his body.

“Hey, what was that at our last meeting?” he cautiously asked while Amon was turned away from him. His leader didn’t respond, and so the unaware patsy pressed, “When did you discover your power?”

Every time Amon recalled the moment of weakness, self hatred consumed him that he allowed himself to use the ability he had reviled for so long, in front of witnesses no less. He stared down at his hands as he clenched and unclenched the bag of melting slush; they were forever stained red with the blood he bent. But maybe he could do something good with his power; turning around to face his lieutenant, Amon muttered, “One day I’ll tell you the story, but not today.” His lieutenant seemed crestfallen by the answer, so Amon changed the subject and asked, “It’s getting late, Lieutenant, are you tired?”

“Not really,” the other replied with a shrug. “I was considering going for a walk, although I’m sure you would rather I stay cooped up to avoid the big, mean benders,” he added to tease his leader.

Instead, Amon offered, “I’ll accompany you.” He needed the fresh air just as much a his partner, a distraction from the conflicting thoughts swirling in his head. It was...pleasant, just to wander the streets of Republic City, until they found themselves in a backalley behind a theater Amon could hear was in the middle of a play. On impulse he lead his lieutenant inside, he wasn't sure what had possessed him, but the rush it gave him to sneaking to view a highbrow performance was much more euphoric than the one that was haunting him. He didn’t stop to consider if his lieutenant would appreciate the fine arts; indeed, his accomplice shot him a bewildered look as they settled into the back seats.

“Just because we are not rich elites, doesn’t mean we cannot enjoy some culture,” Amon said in a hushed voice, then focused his attention on the actors. He was thankful for his mask to obscure his expressions, for as the play continued and he felt a strong hand rest atop his, he pretended not to notice.


	6. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: implied previous self harm and mentions of transphobia

He told himself that he couldn't get attached anymore, that he couldn't depend on anyone. Bonds with other people were messy, and only ended in hurt. And in the business he was from, where there was no such thing as an ally and anyone would sell you out for right price, nobody could be trusted with his secrets. Even in his cause, it was an unspoken rule not to discuss each other's personal lives while on the job; when working they were faceless, donning masks to avoid identification by law enforcement, and the higher ups went by aliases or no name at all.

It was why when Amon's lieutenant started getting closer, he instinctively recoiled despite how he may have felt. He didn't know how to feel, to be honest; years of living behind a lie paralyzed his ability to navigate through relationships. He knew he appreciated the unwavering loyalty the other man showed him, born not of fear but of respect, and that things were informal back when the movement began. But the rules hadn't changed over the years, even if his lieutenant's glances did, if his hand lingered over his leader's back for a few heartbeats during meetings. Amon knew what the other man wanted, and it made his heart ache, even if the neither of them had acknowledged it. His lieutenant didn't say anything, even when he grabbed Amon by the wrist one night in his office and begged him with his eyes.

It was clumsy at first, a small tryst against the concrete walls, a flurry of needy kisses against unyielding porcelain. Amon succumbed to his subordinate’s touch as the other fisted the front of his jacket, his own hands hanging by his side, unsure of what to do. His inaction must have worried the other, for his lieutenant pulled away with a desperate noise and locked gazes with him, finally speaking with a murmured, “Please.” Amon knew that he was too weak to resist, no matter how hard he tried to destroy his own needs. Solemnly he nodded in approval and tugged his lieutenant closer by his belt.

It wouldn't be the last time they shared moments like this. Over time, Amon would give in to his desires whenever they had a moment of privacy, either in his office or in his shared dwelling with his lieutenant. They had lived together for some time, as it wasn't unusual for two unmarried men to board together if they worked the same job, but it had been a decade since Amon had lived with someone he was being...intimate with. He didn't know how to describe it; they hadn't gone further than unfamiliar fumbling, or talked much about it, but his lieutenant would do his best to get Amon to not recede into his own mind.

He climbed into bed with Amon one night, hoping for something more sensual than their previous encounters. Jiang didn't address Amon as he sat down, his back facing the other as he discarded his belt and gray shirt, feeling intense eyes on his behind as he bent forward to yank off his boots. After stretching his arms, Jiang turned around to face the object of his devotion; in years long gone, they would share the very same bed during the coldest winter nights, but he had been banished to the couch as of late, for the closer he got, the more Amon tried to close himself off.

“Let me undress you,” Jiang proposed, already shifting closer to the other man. Amon was still almost completely dressed, he never stripped down in front of others unless it was for his lieutenant to treat serious wounds. Although he didn't respond, Amon didn't resist when the other carefully pushed down his hood. He didn't even look at his lieutenant, which prompted Jiang to sigh and say, “You know, I can only put up with the cold shoulder for so long. If you don't want to continue, I'll stop.”

That earned a glare from Amon, who bristled as he retorted, “I wasn't under the impression this was more than just casual fooling around, Lieutenant.”

“That's not true, Amon, you know that I take all of this seriously,” Jiang said, now using a softer tone as he knew arguing would get him nowhere. He rested his hands on the broad chest in front of him, imagining what the muscles underneath felt like. “I want more with you, and I know you want more too. But...you're holding back from me, and I don't want you to feel like you have to hide from me.”

In defeat Amon hung his shoulders, crippled by the weight of all his secrets, and Jiang almost pitied how much of a far cry he was from the strong leader he was for everyone else. “I'm not worth caring about,” he grumbled.

“That's not true, sir,” his lieutenant spoke in genuineness, “I'm not going to run away.” Seeing Amon like this hurt something in Jiang, made him want to help the other man forget his inner demons; he genuinely adored his superior. Amon took a deep breath, and allowed Jiang to unbutton his top all the way. There was another layer underneath, so after stroking the other's neck comfortingly Jiang undid the dark belt around Amon's waist before taking off the sleeveless tunic all the way. Each item he carefully folded up and placed on the nightstand; when he grabbed the hem of the long sleeved shirt Amon inhaled sharply. “Its okay,” Jiang reassured, saying the first thing that came to mind, then lifted the dark shirt over Amon's head, careful to not knock off the mask.

Said man peered at his lieutenant through the eye holes with an unreadable expression, the air nipping his bare skin. Exposed for the other man's gaze, he sat still as his lieutenant took in his appearance first with his eyes, then with his hands. Jiang felt Amon’s abdominal muscles tense underneath his palms as he rested them on a toned stomach. After feeling them up, his hands followed the trail of dark hairs up to fondle Amon's chest, which elicited a breathy sigh he almost didn't catch. Thin, faded crescents underneath the nipples were the only indication that such pectorals were masterfully crafted instead of grown into. Scars of various states of healing littered the tawny skin which Jiang traced delicately with his fingertips; some of the fresher ones that he recognized were still sensitive and earned delicious noises when pressed. In silence he continued to explore the canvass of Amon's body, eventually coming to a spot on his lower arm. White, angry lines almost parallel to each other were carved below the elbow; when Jiang lifted up Amon's arm to inspect them more closely the other clenched his jaw. “How did you get these?” He asked, a mix of curious and worried as he felt his leader's arm tremble. “Amon?”

His lieutenant looked up at him, and Amon lowered his head and looked away at the wall, letting out a shaky breath. He remembered how Yakone would treat him if he talked back or failed during training -that is, he didn't perform to his father's standards- and wouldn't call him the right name as punishment. He remembered how he'd come home and lock himself in his room, bawling because all he wanted was his father's approval. He remembered feeling impure after training sessions, how his blood screamed at him in his veins until he took his hunting knife to his flesh to silence the moonsickness festering in his mind. He remembered Tarrlok clutching him, sobbing as he begged Noatak to never do it again.

He did everything he could to protect his little brother, but he couldn't protect Tarrlok from Noatak's weakness.

“I had a hard time coping with everything I lost to that firebender,” he finally admitted with his eyes wrenched shut; it disgusted him how easy it was to lie.

Jiang mistook Amon’s reaction as shame and pressed an apologetic kiss to the area. “I don't think any less of you,” he murmured so tenderly, so softly. Amon bit his lip as his lieutenant wrapped an arm around him and kissed the scars again before kissing up his arm and shoulder. He let out another shuddering breath and exposed his neck so the other man could mark it as well. “You're not weak, Amon,” his lieutenant whispered against his skin, now sitting between his thighs and their chests pressing against each other.

Slowly strong arms enveloped Jiang, and his heart swelled with emotion. He rubbed Amon's back and ran his hand through his hair; he rarely got to enjoy how thick and soft his leader's hair was. After a while he toyed with the string of Amon's mask; he wondered out loud, “May I?” In hindsight, perhaps it was too soon to ask of so much, but Amon nodded, and his lieutenant gingerly untied the mask and set it aside. He held his breath as the other stared at his bare face; the silicone prosthetics and make up he used were convincingly ugly in making him look disfigured. It would have made most men flinch, but his lieutenant gazed upon the scars with a tenderness no other previous partner had shown him when his face was bare. “Do they hurt?” Jiang asked with concern as he traced the outline of a scar on Amon's jaw.

Amon shook his head, then guided them downwards so that he lay on his back and his lieutenant on top of him. “Sometimes my face muscles get a little stiff, but never sore,” it wasn't a complete lie; the lip prosthetic he applied sometimes made it more difficult to speak, among other things. When Jiang experimentally pressed his lips against Amon's it caught the latter off guard, and he struggled to kiss back. Jiang kept the gesture at a pace that would not overwhelm the other, even though both craved something more ravenous. Maybe another night they could ravage each other; tonight they kissed each other slowly, languidly, until they were breathless and their eyes grew heavy with exhaustion.

Jiang rolled off of the other, but didn't get up to leave. He didn't want to sleep on the couch anymore, not after this. “Can I stay?” He cautiously inquired. Amon responded by pulling him in for another embrace and one final kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! While writing this I debated giving Amon's lieutenant a name; I settled on Jiang because I thought it was fitting that it referred to the Yangzee river, when Noatak derives from the Noatak river. Feel free to leave a comment or a kudos!


	7. Shot Day

Amon had known about hormone therapy for decades, but hadn't felt like he ever needed to use it before. When he went by Noatak and didn't have to hide his bending, he would just bloodbend on himself in his own home and shape his body into the features he wanted. But now that he lived with someone else, and had to compensate for his cover story, that wasn't an option. For the same reason Amon wore make up behind his mask, he couldn't risk being exposed as a fraud if anyone dug deeper into his personal life.

The first issue was finding a doctor able to prescribe him testosterone whose office was discreet enough for him to slip in and out of while building up The Equalists, who didn't ask too many questions. Then it was a matter of finding the time and place to inject himself every other week; initially he'd done it in his own bedroom while his lieutenant was fiddling with his gadgets, but once The Equalists got their own base he took all of his supplies to his office. It was a perfect system, if not tiresome to have to poke himself so often.

That's how his lieutenant found him one day, sitting at his desk with a syringe in his hand. He had knocked on the door and announced, “Sir, I need to speak with you.”

“Just a minute,” Amon replied as he measured out the solution. He had his tunic unbuttoned and shirt rolled up in preparation as he stuck himself in the gut. Cursing under his breath, Amon pressed down on the plunger as he wracked his mind for what reason the other man would be bothering him.

Although Amon had locked the door, his lieutenant was able to walk in; the lock had been broken and he thought he had fixed it. He was almost done with the injection when the other man saw the translucent substance going into his system and dropped a small stack of papers. Immediately Amon emptied the syringe and set it down before tidying himself up. “Amon, I-” his lieutenant began, but Amon stood up unsteadily and cut him off.

“Get out.” Anger and humiliation washed over him and it took all of his strength to not snarl at his subordinate.

His lieutenant shifted on his feet, but remained put. If there was one thing the man was, he was dedicated to his leader to a fault. “Sir, what was that substance?” Jiang knew he was out of line, but if his leader was putting harmful chemicals in his body then he had to stop Amon. “If you're doing drugs-”

“I said, get out,” Amon repeated, staring down the other man. His lieutenant didn't waver. “Lieutenant…” he sighed, and sat back down, “It's for a condition I do not wish to discuss with you.”

His lieutenant stared at him oddly before shutting the door and saying quietly, “I think I know what kind of condition you're talking about.” After a quick discussion, and assurance from Jiang that he wouldn't tell anyone, the subject didn't come up again until Amon became intimate with the other man. Then his lieutenant would drop subtle hints, give him a wide breadth on injection days, then hover over him once the deed was done. Eventually Jiang confronted his leader; he hated how Amon felt like he had to hide this part of his life from everyone, shut himself in even from a lover. “You can do this at home, Amon; I won't mind,” he said; he wanted Amon to be able to do this in comfort, and know that Jiang accepted his condition instead of seeing it as just an exploit in bed.

Even if Amon conceded, he still preferred his privacy while giving himself a shot; he'd never admit it to his lieutenant, but other people watching him made him self conscious. But then once he was done his lieutenant came in like clockwork, doting over him as the hormones flooded his system. In a simultaneously tender and deferential gesture Jiang knelt down and cleaned up the injection site before caressing it with his thumb; the skin was red as if it were irritated. “Botched injection?” He rubbed the area to stimulate the blood flow as he waited for a response.

“Needle didn't go in right,” Amon grunted as he relaxed his body; he was so tired. His limbs felt heavier than stone for some time after every injection, so he was grateful for the other man's assistance, even if he never voiced it. “It stings, but I’m fine.”

Gently Jiang kissed a spot right above the wound, then redressed his leader and pecked him again on the mask’s forehead. “Let me take care of you,” he murmured as half lidded icy eyes stared up at him, then helped Amon to his feet. As the taller of the two he let Amon lean on him as he walked them out to the dinner table. “Sit, I'll bring you dinner,” Jiang offered as he pulled out a chair for the other man; he almost always was the one to cook if they had the time to prepare their own meals, having a much better knack for it than his lover, but for shot days he made Water Tribe food for Amon. He didn't know why, but the other loved the cuisine more than almost anything else in the world, and Jiang could tell how much he appreciated the little gesture by how greedily he inhaled his meal. He almost forgot to take off his mask before digging in, but otherwise ate in silence. Jiang ate his own portion slower as he watched Amon out of the corner of his eye.

When he was finished, Amon sighed and reclined in his seat. “That was good, Lieutenant. Thank you,” he praised; his lieutenant couldn't help but smile, a small upturn of his lips that made Amon's heart both swell and ache. There wasn't enough he could say to the other man to express how grateful he was for everything his lieutenant did for him. He didn't even call Jiang by name. What a pitiful man he was, but Jiang still smiled, still did the dishes that night while Amon rested his eyes, still gazed upon him like he was sublime.

He felt a hand card through his hair as his lieutenant asked, “Ready to go to bed?” Amon nodded, and when he was back in bed Jiang dutifully stripped him down to his underwear. Sensing something was bothering his leader, he stopped halfway through taking off his own clothes to ask, “Amon, what's wrong?”

“I don't do anything to deserve you,” he confessed bitterly.

“That's nonsense,” Jiang laughed, then sat down next to Amon when he was just in his boxers. Taking the sunkissed hand into his paler one, he said seriously, “You give me purpose, Amon. I've never had something to believe in before,” he murmured while cupping a scarred cheek. He hoped the other felt all of his sincerity, remembered how hopeless he had been before he had been reborn into the cause. A steelworker who had been laid off, who spent his last wages on cheap booze and had nothing to live for. For that, Jiang’s life belonged to Amon. Wanting to make sure his leader was convinced, Jiang leaned in and pressed a long, tender kiss on blemished lips, then proclaimed, “I'm yours, Amon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!


	8. Intoxicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: smut

Amon sipped on bitter tea as he tried to be interested in the book he was reading. It was some sort of fantasy novel, but his mind kept drifting to his lieutenant, who wasn't home yet. Today's mission had gone well, much better than anticipated, so the lieutenant had taken the mission's squad out drinking to celebrate. Usually Amon didn't leave for the day without the other man to walk home with him, but after assurances that the celebrating would go late into the night Amon retired by himself. He had already dressed down into an undershirt and sweats -although he still donned his mask- when he heard the front door unlock, and his lieutenant stumbled in.

“Took you long enough,” Amon quipped; Jiang chuckled nervously and removed his mask. His cheeks were slightly flushed. Amon shut the book he had been staring at with a sigh and asked as he stood up, “Did you get drunk?”

“No, I just got buzzed,” replied as he shrugged off his kali sticks and generator, which hit the ground with a heavy thud. He suppressed a giggle as a dumb thought crossed his mind; Amon rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. The other man was a happy drunk, and could hold his liquor well, so it was no doubt that he had been laughing it up with their underlings while matching them shot for shot. “I had fun with the grunts; talking with them reminded me of why I joined the cause,” Jiang said sincerely as he approached his superior.

“That's great,” Amon grumbled, his voice heavy with sarcasm. His lieutenant’s smile faltered and Jiang reached forward to rub his arm, but he turned away.

“Amon, what's wrong? I thought you were okay with me going out.”

“Shooting the breeze until midnight is not acceptable behavior, Lieutenant,” Amon retorted in a cold, even tone. “You could have been ambushed. You were in public with your guard down instead of here with me.” Jiang had been close to getting defensive, but in his compromised state he realized what was really bothering the other man as he ranted.

With a soft chuckle that irritated Amon with how mushy it made him feel inside, Jiang held his lover's hand and spoke reassuringly, “I was with a dozen or so other Equalists, you don't have to worry about me, my love.”

Amon grumbled to himself as his lieutenant caressed his sides and continued to laugh softly, buttering him up. The other man knew he couldn't be mad while having his lieutenant's...adorableness rubbed in his face. “I wasn't worried,” Amon begrudgingly admitted as he resigned himself to a flurry of touches, “I just...missed you.”

Large, callused hands rested on his waist. “Did you eat anything while I was gone?” 

Amon hated that knowing look, hated it. “...I burned what was in the pan when I tried to cook,” Said pan sat in the sink behind them scorched on the bottom. “So I waited for you to come home and make dinner.”

Jiang clapped his lover on the shoulder before going into the kitchen to inspect the damage. It looked like a firebender had taken a grudge out on their stove. “Oh, Amon,” he snickered, “You would think that a man raised as a female would be a better cook.”

“My mother tried her hardest,” Amon snorted. 

“I pity your mother,” his lieutenant countered with amusement, then prepared a quick meal for his shit cook of a lover. “Better now?” Jiang teased as Amon scarfed it down; the latter nodded. Suddenly he stood up and stretched, announcing, “Good, because I'm going to bed.” He padded into the direction of their bedroom, leaving the dishes for Amon to clean. The other man must have had other ideas, though, for he didn't even have the time to start undressing before Jiang felt a hand rest on the small of his back.

“Let me get that for you,” Amon offered, already lifting up his lieutenant's top without waiting for an answer. The other man didn't protest, his fingers too clumsy from inebriation for much use; Amon deftly divested him of clothes until his torso was bare. A sigh escaped parted lips as Amon caressed the toned chest before him, then another as he toyed with dusky nipples. He captured his lieutenant's lips in a passionate kiss that revealed all of his intentions as his hands explored further, searching for more figurative buttons to press. What earned a surprised moan was when Amon squeezed the bulge in his lieutenant's pants, relishing not only the pleasured sound but how the erection hardened and throbbed underneath his palm. Cruelly he parted from the kiss and nipped the other's bottom lip, then demanded huskily, “What do you want, Lieutenant?”

“You,” Jiang replied with a low whine as his member continued to be stimulated. “Please,” he begged, wanting nothing more than to be claimed, to be made Amon's. So many times he had fallen down on his knees to service his leader, and tonight seemed to be going the same direction; a hand on his shoulder guided him down until his head was parallel to Amon's crotch, then buried his face in it. From past experience Jiang used his teeth to pull down the sweats just enough to expose his lover so he could nuzzle the other's groin.

“What a good lieutenant,” Amon purred as Jiang sucked on his tip, patting his head approvingly. The gesture was obviously meant to humiliate him, but he swallowed his pride and his leader's fluids as he lapped at a leaking entrance. He relished in every moan he caused, how little this made him feel. But this time Amon didn't make Jiang suck him off to completion, instead pulling away and murmuring, “I have more planned for you, my lieutenant. Stand up.” Jiang obeyed the order, and allowed himself to be lead to and forced down on the bed. “You deserve a reward for your loyalty,” he said as he climbed on top of his lieutenant, straddling him as he made out with him once more.

Desperately Jiang pawed at the other, realization dawning on him as his boots and pants were torn off his body. “Amon, wait,” he blurted, his lover freezing in place right as he grabbed the hem of his boxers. Suddenly Jiang felt incredibly embarrassed and he blushed slightly, then mumbled, “I've...never slept with a man like you.”

“It won't be much different than with a man born male,” Amon explained bluntly; his erection was achingly hard and quite distracting. Narrowing his eyes, he then asked, “You haven't lost your nerve, have you?”

“Of course not!” His lieutenant growled, his face only growing redder. “I'm almost insulted you would ask me such a thing.”

“My apologies,” Amon returned with a disinterested tone, then removed the other man's underwear. Carelessly he tossed the garment across the room and, like a predator, descended on his flustered lover to kiss and nibble on his neck while straddling his naked form. Eagerly Jiang moaned and clutched onto Amon, and he was so lost in the moment that he didn't notice his leader’s actions until he felt a lubed digit invade him. Instinctively his body wanted to clench around the intrusion and he gasped, but Jiang kept himself calm, which wasn't hard with Amon stroking his cock. “Imagine what your men would say now if they could see you,” Amon snarled into his ear; he moaned as his superior teased him and his sweet spot. “Their stoic lieutenant a hot mess just aching to be forced down and fucked.”

“Please,” his lieutenant begged, breathing heavily. The only thing preventing Jiang from squirming was his his own discipline, but Amon knew that resolve could be broken.

Quickly he pulled away, ignoring the displeased grunt from the man beneath him, then yanked his pants halfway down his thighs and sat on his knees. With a growl Amon grabbed his lieutenant by the hips and forced him down; getting the hint, Jiang wrapped his legs around the other's waist and arched his back so Amon could thrust right into him. Immediately he started moving; a slow, deep pace was as much as Amon gave him to adjust to the size of the cock in him. It was shorter and not as girthy as the other men Jiang had been with, but he wasn't complaining; for one thing it didn't tear up his insides and was easier to get accustomed to, meaning he could all the sooner enjoy how Amon moved above him.

Thrusting faster, Amon asked sultrily, “You enjoying yourself, Lieutenant?” His subordinate nodded and bit his lip to suppress a moan. Smirking, he then rolled his hips and pounded harder into the spot he knew would make his lieutenant scream. “How about now?” Amon teased as Jiang yelped, a string of moans and profanities then escaping from his mouth. His lover started to clench down on him, and then it was Amon’s turn to pant and groan, growling, “Spirits, you feel so amazing.”

Searching with his hands for anything to anchor himself to, Jiang fisted the pillow behind him as his ass was plowed into. His whole body rocked with the force of Amon slamming into him, filling him. Their resulting noises from the throes of pleasure grew louder, and he deep down thanked that their apartment walls had adequate insulation. Jiang had forgotten just how long he had been pining for his superior, lusted for this moment as Amon lead his movement to glory. He was willing to do anything for his lover, had devoted his heart and soul to The Equalists, all Jiang wanted to do was to satisfy the other man. He was so close to orgasm, they both were, and as his cock pulsed he tightened his legs’ hold around Amon.

What made him cum was when Amon squeezed his dick and then started stroking it fiercely. A deep rumble erupted from his chest and Jiang released his seed all over his lover's hand and chest. Amon continued to pound into his lieutenant, relishing in how beautifully Jiang writhed underneath him. He came soon after, his orgasm washing over him in waves as he seized up, overwhelming him. As his essence dripped down his thighs and he stilled his hips, Amon let his body relax as he fought to catch his breath. For a moment he didn't pull out, tried to memorize this feeling, finally getting up so that he could clean them both as his lieutenant lay sprawled out on the bed limp from afterglow.

Soft kisses peppered Jiang's stomach as his crotch was wiped clean, and he keened as another kiss was pressed to his cheek. Wrapping his arms around Amon, Jiang couldn't help but whisper, “I love you.” He meant the admission with all his heart; Amon knew, too.

Unsure of how to respond, Amon quietly embraced his lieutenant from behind and closed his eyes. He realized then that he was madly in love with the other, and couldn't suppress it any longer. And that's what made his heart ache the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	9. Monsoon Season

Summer in Republic City always meant heavy rainstorms, something Amon always dreaded. The precipitation itself didn't bother him, being a waterbender, but the endless days of rain during storms and how the humidity clung to his skin like sweat were annoying to no end. To him, that was; his lieutenant almost seemed at ease during a storm, sometimes would stare out the window or want to stay in bed and listen to the rain until it passed.

“What are you doing?” Jiang asked, voice filled with amusement as he entered the bedroom.

“Suffering,” Amon groaned, head buried in his pillow as the soft sound of thunder rumbling filled the room. The thin blanket he was using did little to hide his nude body, his bare limbs stretched out to catch a ghost of a breeze.

“It's not that hot,” Jiang teased, stripped down to his underwear and joining his lover in bed. His body was cool from sitting alone in the living room tuning his kali sticks, and so Amon clung to him. “I'm surprised you're still awake,” Jiang added as he rested his head on his leader's chest; it was late, even for Amon.

“Too humid to sleep,” he grumbled while stroking his lieutenant's hair absentmindedly. After a kiss was pressed against his lips, Amon grabbed at the other man's mustache, appraising the strand in his fingers as his lieutenant watched him curiously. “It's getting quite long,” Amon noted, tugging at it; he remembered the mustache being half its current length when they first met.

“Do you want me to get rid of it?” Jiang asked; Amon shook his head.

“I wouldn't recognize you if you shaved,” he replied; in truth, he quite liked how it tickled his skin when they kissed. Such sensations reminded Amon that the mask he wore during the day wasn't his real face. Chuckling, his lieutenant kissed him once more, and they lay in each other's arms, listening to the storm pick up.

“My father had a mustache like this,” Jiang thought out loud; Amon hummed in acknowledgement as his eyelids grew heavy. “I'm sure my brothers have ones, too.”

Huh. Amon never knew his subordinate had siblings. “A whole village of my Lieutenant, sounds like my paradise,” he murmured, loopy from sleep deprivation, and earned a bemused grin from the other. But there was a sadness in it, in the other man's eyes, that Amon recognized as the same sadness he felt when he thought of Tarrlok. “I had a little brother,” he admitted, the intimacy of the situation bringing out a degree of openness.

For a moment Jiang stared at him, then whispered, “Do you miss him?”

“...yes,” Amon eventually replied, “Some things remind me of him.” His lieutenant nodded, then turned his head to watch rain pelt against their window. Sometimes Amon would tease his lover for the unusual fascination, but times such as then he would quietly hold Jiang and enjoy his company. A few times though, he had caught the other man sitting outside during the rain and had to chastise him, then drag him inside and warm him up with tea and a blanket. Amon always warned his lieutenant that he wouldn't give his subordinate any time off if he caught a cold, but it never deterred him.

Amon was buried now in a new book, using the on and off storms as an excuse to put off doing the laundry. Since they had the day off, his lieutenant had left to get some fresh air; Amon hadn't pressed him for details because he was a grown man and could take care of himself, but that had been several hours ago when it was still sunny outside. A thundercrack made Amon start to worry, despite himself. He found that he couldn't focus on his story as his mind kept going over possibilities of why his lieutenant wasn't home. Grumbling to himself, Amon set down the book and peered out the balcony door. No sign of his rogue lover.

After getting dressed in his uniform, he stepped outside and immediately was pelted by a spray of water. Amon looked around, but it was hard to discern anything through the thick sheets of rain, so carefully he climbed up a railing to get up to the rooftop. From that vantage point he could see across the city on a clear day; today wasn't one of those days, so after some consideration he leapt onto the closest building. And then the next one, and the next; he must have scoured the entirety of the slums until he finally saw a figure standing at the edge of an apartment complex rooftop.

Jiang was dressed in civilian clothes, drenched down to the bone. He was facing away from Amon and didn't turn around as the other approached him; from a few feet away Amon stopped and followed his gaze to a park, abandoned because of the weather. A thousand different thoughts and choice words crossed Amon's mind, but none of them he voiced, instead he folded his arms behind his back and waited for his lieutenant to speak.

Eventually Jiang said softly, smiling sadly, “I grew up in a valley where two rivers intersected, and there were rice crops as far as the eye could see. During the wet season, all of the rice fields would flood. I was the youngest of three sons, and there were always other kids to play with in the village; at home my mother took care of us, and as soon as I was ten I joined my father in tending to the rice crops. On special events my mother would cook sweets, which I'd sometimes eat while watching the rain. It was....a simple life.”

“Why did you leave?” Amon inquired; he had never probed into his lieutenant's personal life before, and he was genuinely intrigued.

Frowning, Jiang closed his eyes and replied, “Because it wasn't the life for me. My parents expected me to marry a nice woman and have a dozen kids, work in the rice fields until the day I died. Live a ‘traditional life’. My father belted me when I was twelve because he found me kissing another boy. When I was eighteen I packed my things and never looked back.” With a defeated sigh Jiang turned around and stared at Amon with a teary expression that made the other man's heart ache, and growled, “I came here for a better life, but so much for that, huh?” The world was cruel to people like him, no matter where he went, whether Jiang was pushed down for his queerness or his nonbender status; he had been naive to believe the change of scenery would be anything more than but.

As the rain pelted their bodies, Amon stroked his lieutenant's arm to comfort him, then stepped forward to watch the park below with him. In his youth, Jiang used to sit by the window and watch the storms to distract himself, to dream of a beautiful boy to save him from his heartache. Perhaps that's why he had been so drawn to the masked man playing savior, followed him out in the pouring rain and begged to join his cause. He must have seemed crazed, a homeless, jobless drunk barely able to stand, but Amon took him in, and the rest was history. “Lieutenant...” Amon trailed off, not accustomed to consoling others, and tried relating to him.“My father's acceptance was conditional. Sometimes he humored me, most of the time he considered me lesser because I wasn't like him. My mother was better about it, but only when she realized I wouldn't be the daughter she wanted. They both struggled to understand it.” For once he wasn't telling a lie or a half truth to the man who had been nothing but honest with him.

Jiang sighed, “Then you understand why I couldn't stay on that farm. Sometimes I still miss it, though.” He brushed his hand against Amon's and the other clutched it reassuringly. With a sad chuckle he then asked, “Why is it that we have fonder memories of our mothers than our fathers?”

“Because it's a mother's job to nurture and dote on us,” Amon answered. “It is a father’s duty to raise his sons into strong men.” Shaking his head, he then squeezed his lieutenant's hand and pulled the downtrodden man into a tight hug. “Come now,” he whispered into his lover's ear, “let's go home. You're going to catch a cold in this weather, you fool.”

Jiang laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this story is about Noatak/Amon, I've been getting more invested in his lieutenant's character and wondering what his past could have been. It was raining a lot while I was writing, which inspired this piece. I hope it came out well!


	10. Insomnia

Over the years Jiang spent with Amon, he picked up on certain patterns in the latter's behavior. How he'd brood for long periods of time on an issue before bringing it up, stubbornly try to solve things himself before admitting defeat and deferring to his lieutenant. Or how the man performed the same morning routine every day, and got in a mood if it was interrupted; all little things that reminded Jiang that his leader had a human side. He knew whenever something was bothering Amon because his lover would become withdrawn, and would quietly press himself into Jiang's arms at night.

Such moments didn't happen often, but over time Jiang noticed that Amon was broodier during colder months or when the moon was nearing fullness, among other odd behaviors that recurred like clockwork. A certain restlessness, an almost manic manner of speaking at times, plagued his leader around the full moon, along with mood swings and sometimes a seemingly insatiable arousal. Jiang had heard of moonsickness in benders, but figured that Amon's connection to the spirits must have brought on a similar condition, and pitied him. Such a power was heavy for a single man to bear.

Of course, Amon's lieutenant wasn't aware that Amon truly did suffer from an affliction related to his secret bending; bloodbending on benders to strip them of their powers rekindled the old sickness. To avoid the feverish dreams he pushed himself harder, stayed later at work, until he was so exhausted that he dreamt of nothing at all when he finally rested; the most peaceful he ever felt. Rationally Amon knew that the sleep deprivation didn't help his behavior during waking moments, and that his lieutenant worried about him, but Amon did his best to suppress his symptoms.

At the end of the work day was usually when Amon did the bulk of his paperwork, completing records and going over forms. It was tedious work, and he found himself nodding off while waiting for his lieutenant to arrive at his office. When he finally entered the small room, Jiang discovered his leader slumped over his desk and snoring softly, every breath ending in a slight whistle as the air escaped through the mask’s nostrils. Although tired himself, he took a moment to take in the scene, smiling softly as he shook his head; Amon was almost cute like this. Silently he crept up to the other man's side and lightly touched his lover's shoulder to rouse Amon.

Slowly stirring awake, Amon wordlessly sat up before grumbling, “Took you long enough to come.”

“I'm right on time, my love,” his lieutenant replied, hand sliding down to rub the small of his back. “Maybe I took a few minutes longer than usual.”

Too proud to admit he was in the wrong, Amon went to rub the sleep from his eyes with one hand while making a noise between a sigh and a yawn. Oftentimes Jiang forgot that the mask wasn't his leader's ‘real’ face; Amon must have as well, if his instinctive gesture, and all the times he tried to nonchalantly sip tea only to often have it dribble down his mask’s chin, were indication enough. “There is still so much paperwork to do,” he said defeatedly.

In a comforting motion, his lieutenant smoothed a stray strand of hair of Amon's back into place, then assisted him to his feet. “But not tonight,” the other said, “it's time to go home.” Without any protest, Amon followed him out of the compound and to their apartment. Under the shroud of darkness, they snuck into the housing complex and their home, and Amon felt like collapsing onto the couch after the front door was locked. Instead he sat down carefully and sighed tiredly; his lieutenant took off his mask and joined him. Despite the speeches he gave -or perhaps because of them, as the frequent speaking required of a man of his position was taxing on Amon's throat- no words were needed between them to convey their truest emotions. Amon was tired, but oh so restless.

“Some of the papers I was looking at,” he began, not bothering to face his lieutenant as he addressed his subordinate, “field reports filled out by you. Usually Mr. Sato likes to be kept in the loop on our movements, but he has complained about the legibility of your writing several times.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Jiang grumbled while crossing his arms.

“To not give him a reason to complain,” Amon returned. “I'm the one who has to deal with him when he has criticisms, if you do not recall.” His voice held no hostility, yet it was still clear to his lieutenant that this a non negotiable subject. It wasn't something Jiang was comfortable discussing that Amon had brought up, the former mused as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Growing up in rural farmlands, reading and writing weren't a priority, and so he learned neither until early adulthood when the subjects wouldn't take so well, the mind being less malleable. Even in his older age, being barely literate was a sore spot for Jiang, which is why he bristled as Amon pressed the issue.

“Am I going to notice an improvement in your handwriting?” He asked, now facing his lieutenant.

Eventually the other man huffed, “I'm not slow, Amon. I just...I'm not…” He hated how those pale eyes analyzed him, could see right through him. After a few moments Amon stood up and walked over to the bookshelf, appraising several books before pulling out a paperback that looked lightly used. That smirking mask didn't give anything away, so Jiang watched his lover return with a raised brow.

“This is a new book that I haven't had the chance to start,” Amon explained as he pressed the novel into his lieutenant's hands. “I want you to read it it to me.”

“I'm a slow reader,” Jiang warned; Amon curled up against his side.

“Then you'll read me a chapter a night until you struggle no more,” he proclaimed, again unwilling to budge. And he kept his promise; every night, no matter how exhausting the day was, Amon made sure to sit down with his lieutenant and listen to the latter orate the story before they went to bed. At first his lieutenant read slowly and with a lack of confidence, but as Jiang become more engrossed in the story the uncertainty left his voice. It was a typical fantasy novel, a genre Jiang soon learned that Amon preferred, but by an author who often wrote for a queer audience; although he didn't see himself as the bookish type, Jiang found himself enjoying the story and starting to look forward to the nightly sessions. Amon was correct to assume that becoming more familiar with written language in an engaging way would improve his lieutenant's handwriting, plus it didn't hurt to listen to that baritone voice spin the story to life.

It soothed the ache in his heart the moon left as it clawed at him, gave him something to focus on instead of how his blood boiled. The voice of his lover lulled him into a peace he didn't think he was capable of in waking moments, and by the time his lieutenant finished a chapter Amon's eyelids would grow heavy. Jiang wasn't daft, knew what effect he had on his lover, and would smile softly to himself as Amon rested his head on his shoulder. One night as the full moon loomed over their apartment, Jiang noticed his lover struggling to stay awake and paused in the middle of his reading to ask, “Do you want to go to bed, love?”

Stubbornly Amon shook his head and muttered, “Finish the chapter first.” Always demanding, never asking; Jiang humored him until he heard Amon's breathing become heavy to indicate he had passed out. With a chuckle Jiang bookmarked his spot in the novel before unceremoniously carrying his leader to their room. He then stripped down Amon until the other man was half naked, and climbed into bed with him after Jiang had done the same to himself. Falling asleep almost instantly when his head hit the pillow, his slumber was restful until he felt himself being kicked hard in the leg. Eyes shooting open, Jiang glanced around frantically in the dark as his adrenaline rush activated.

They weren't being attacked by a home invader; instead Amon was tossing and turning fitfully in his sleep. That didn't offer him much consolation, however, and Jiang sat up and shook the other's shoulder. “Amon, wake up,” he murmured as his unconscious lover grunted and kicked his feet out, “It's just a dream!” Eventually Amon's thrashing ceased and his eyes fluttered open.

Amon had had bad dreams before, but in his youth suffered recurring night terrors that were influenced by the lunar cycle; feeling the moonlight on his skin agitated him, and he shied away from his lover's touch. His lieutenant realized what was wrong, and got up to close the window curtains and turn on the lamp on the side table, which cast a reddish glow on the room and Amon's backside. Returning to bed, Jiang got a better look at the other; Amon was curled into himself now and whimpering, still faced away from the one man he shared his bed with. Again Jiang attempted to touch him, this time he flinched but didn't recoil from the contact. “Amon, it's me,” his lieutenant said, as if he wouldn't recognize his own subordinate, “what's wrong?”

As Amon came to, shame washed over him that his lieutenant witnessed him in such a state; he wasn't a child that needed comfort after a scary dream. He thought that the nightmares were behind him, having ceased when he was born anew, but everything came back to him. Sometimes the night terrors had been about Tarrlok and Yakone, sometimes about his own body reverting to its old state, either way Amon did not remember them with fondness. Wordlessly he shivered, and not from the cold seeping in from the outside.

“Don't want to talk about it?” Jiang observed as he caressed his lover's shoulder; Amon shook his head. How could he explain that he had a variation of a recurring dream he once had of bloodbending his brother, where instead he bloodbent the very man he loved? Recalling it made him tremble more, and his lieutenant lay back down to embrace him from behind. Feeling the other man reach for his hands made Amon realize how tightly he was clenching the sheets; slowly he let go and the tension left his body as his lieutenant enveloped him. Amon used to think that there was a darkness inside him, that he couldn't get close to anyone because they would get hurt, still did at times, but his lieutenant holding him and being safe from any harm made him forget again.

“Whatever it was,” Jiang murmured as he pecked Amon's cheek, “it wasn't real. I'll keep you safe from whatever's haunting you.” Amon chuckled sadly, but found himself believing the other man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise to write something that's 100% fluff after posting this; as much as I enjoy exploring angsty themes, this story needs some reprieve X,)


	11. Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: smut
> 
> So I kind of changed my mind about what I wanted to write, but I restrained myself and didn't do angst. Also, part of the canon divergence is Amon's lieutenant not being useless in combat.

Amon was, if anything, discreet. Sometimes he wasn't even intentionally secretive, he simply saw no point in discussing details of himself unless it held any relevance to whatever conversation he was having; as a man who didn't bring up his daily personal life at work, they rarely were. Hence his discrepancy with his lieutenant; he had nothing to be ashamed of, he felt, and any of their subordinates could read between the lines and see their relationship, but Amon didn't want any...attention drawn to them.

One of Amon's favorite things to do when he had no paperwork to complete or underlings to direct was to shadow his lieutenant. Under a supervisory pretense he could at a distance oogle the other man's physique, hide his heated stares behind a mask. Often his lieutenant was fiddling with his gadgets when he was at their base, or in the training room; Amon made sure to compliment him on his form as often as necessary. His lieutenant didn't always have an audience, but as Amon lurked in the doorway he watched the other give a lesson on hand to hand combat to a group of younger grunts.

“Melee weapons are well and good against benders,” he had started with, “but you must know how to defend yourself in case you are disarmed.” Jiang then performed several moves from his street days on a dummy, explaining himself and providing pointers to his captivated listeners. Amon only half paid attention, focusing instead on his lieutenant's body; having seen those muscles exposed as they flexed and tensed made watching his lover exert himself while in full uniform all the more tantalizing. And listening to that baritone voice rasp from physical exertion, all the slight, almost inaudible grunts that accompanied every swing...suddenly Amon felt very hot. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

Their eyes met, just briefly, and Jiang shot his leader a knowing look. “Perhaps you would like to help me demonstrate, sir,” he said, snapping Amon out of his musings and beckoning him over. His mock humility would have made his lover chuckle were they in private. Wordlessly Amon complied as all of his followers turned to face him, then backed up as the two men stood in the center of the room. Many times he had given such hands on lessons before, but his technique focused more on Chi blocking; his lieutenant had a more brutal battle strategy. After pushing the dummy out of the way, Jiang positioned himself opposite of Amon; he loved these sparring matches just as much as the latter did. “Are you ready?” He asked, earning an amused snort.

“Always,” Amon replied, then lunged forward. At first his lieutenant used to hold back in fear of knocking off his leader's mask, but stopped when he realized it always resulted in a crushing defeat; this time Jiang easily dodged the other man before attempting to counter him. Amon moved with grace as he sidestepped his companion, and the shuffling of their feet fell into a dance for dominance. The rest of the room was soon forgotten as Amon focused on his lieutenant's movements, his very being, the world fading away in the same kind of way as when they made love. Jiang’s body moved effortlessly and with discipline, but in those eyes was a burning passion that hinted at a hidden unbridled side to the man rarely expressed. Being so close but barely touching was utterly maddening for Amon, and he caught himself about to stumble while preoccupied by his lieutenant's powerful arms.

Jiang himself felt the same distractions; he wanted nothing more than to rip off that alluring, smug mask and kiss the man beneath it, probably would have if it were a private sparring session. Loved it when Amon was rough. As it were, he felt himself gaining the upper hand when Jiang noticed that some of his leader's bangs had fallen out of place from the scuffle, and he cursed himself for how attractive he found such a little thing. His split second of being unfocused allowed Amon to turn the tables, kicking his lieutenant's feet out from underneath him before pinning him down on the floor. Hearing the other man gasp for breath and feeling him between his legs made Amon thank the spirits for the genitals he had been born with as his arousal spiked, and wordlessly he helped his lieutenant to his feet.

As the other man addressed their awestruck underlings, Amon tidied himself as he quickly formulated a plan to relieve his pressing needs. “Lieutenant,” he said, cutting his lover off, “I believe that I have torn open a wound and require your assistance dressing it when you are done.” After his lieutenant nodded in understanding, Amon made the slow walk back to his office, leaving it unlocked as he waited at his desk, feeling restless until his lover arrived. Needing something to occupy his hands with, Amon pushed his hood back; spirits, he was feeling overheated.

Not a second after he heard the door’s lock click, he descended on his lieutenant. “You fucking liar,” Jiang snickered after making a surprised noise.

“Just shut up and take your clothes off,” Amon ordered as he fussed with the zipper on his lieutenant's harness. The other continued to laugh until a hand shot down to grope his crotch, turning them into moans. First Jiang was divested of his kali sticks and generator, then his mask, and as deft fingers undid his belt Amon hissed in his ear, “When I'm done with you, you're going to be the one who needs medical attention.” Jiang's cock throbbed at those words, and hastily he cast off his top and undershirt. As he tried to gather his bearings, Jiang allowed himself to be lead to and pressed against his leader's desk.

Usually when Amon was in such a mood their encounters would be rough and more about Amon using his lieutenant's body for his own pleasure; indeed, he carelessly swept all of his paperwork aside before pushing the other man down on the hard mahogany. This time Amon was in a more generous mood, however, wanted to make his lieutenant feel good. He ran his hands over the broad expanse of his lover's chest, marvelling at how well toned it was; realizing he had never told the other how handsome he was made Amon feel a brief pang of guilt. While what had attracted him to his lover was an emotional connection, his physical appearance had certainly grown on Amon. Jiang's muscles, tense with anticipation, called out to his leader, and Amon traced every one with his fingertips and the lips of his mask. Although they usually didn't waste time on foreplay when having sex at their base, Jiang wasn't complaining by any means by the turn of events...much.

“You tease,” he accused breathlessly as the other man palmed his crotch while toying with one of his nipples. He was already erect from their training earlier -and Jiang knew for certain that Amon was fully aroused as well- and his leader seemed content to just stroke him to completion.

That hand on his groin without warning yanked his pants and underwear down and started stroking his erection, and Jiang gasped. “What was that again?” Amon sneered; he went by his own pace, and didn't care for being rushed. His lieutenant simply grunted in response, and Amon felt his resolve weakening, his arousal building up; his genitals were practically aching for stimulation. Finally he caved and he momentarily withdrew from his lieutenant, hastily stripping the other bare and undoing his own pants before pressing between spread legs. His lover made the most delicious sounds when penetrated, and as Amon pulled Jiang by the hips closer to the edge of the desk to thrust deeper, the latter followed lead and ground against Amon's member; he'd waited long enough for this.

Jiang could get away with taking it dry due to Amon's size, and the fact that his lover's privates were self-lubricating, although he'd still feel sore after the deed was done. Still Amon rocked his hips slowly at first, letting the other adjust the the intrusion, while his hands ran up his lieutenant's long legs to grip the backs of his knees for better leverage. Then Amon sped up, increasing his pace from torturous and slamming into his lieutenant. A switch had went off in his head and he just had to dominate his lover, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white, and his demeanor ruthless as he overwhelmed the body beneath him, relished how the flesh grew flushed and sweaty.

Even with the door locked, they didn’t trust the walls to fully insulate the sounds of them in the throes of passion, but still Jiang struggled to hold in his moans. If he closed his eyes or averted his gaze from Amon's mask he could still feel those piercing eyes on him, and that alone made him heat up and squirm. Groaning, Jiang bit his lip to suppress the noises bubbling up in the back of his throat, then brought the back of his fist to his mouth to reinforce the gesture. His other hand searched for purchase against the cool, smooth wood beneath him as he was fucked into it, and as his lover grew faster the desk creaked louder. And his erection, swollen and weeping from the tip, bobbed in time with Amon's thrusts neglected between Jiang's thighs, aching for the attention from earlier.

Taking notice of this, Amon let go of one of his lieutenant's legs to jerk him off, who hissed in pleasure while wrapping his newly freed leg around his leader's waist. “So greedy is your body for my touch,” Amon growled, “Although you would still cum for me if I wasn't touching you here.” As he finished his sentence Amon squeezed his lieutenant's balls, eliciting a strangled, choked back sound; Jiang was still trying, and failing, to stay quiet. Being the kind of man who liked to push other's boundaries, Amon stroked the cock in his hand faster.

“Fuck, Amon, I'm going to cum,” Jiang grunted; his leader was fast approaching release as well. Eventually they both reached climax, who came first was lost on them as Jiang coated both of their stomachs and Amon's hand in his essence. Those icy eyes closed in bliss as his lover's orgasm peaked, and Amon let out a shuddering sigh as it washed over him.

As he came down from the high Amon stilled his hips, then released his lieutenant from his vice grip and slumped over him, and made no effort to move. Post-coital Amon was much cuddlier than normal Amon; Jiang was aware of that and took full advantage, carding through his leader’s hair as the other man stared at him thoughtfully. “What's going on in that mind of yours?” Jiang asked as he fixed Amon’s hair; it was such a little thing, Amon's bangs out of place, that made his heart flutter, but to Jiang it meant everything to witness his calm and composed superior become so impassioned he messed up his meticulously kept appearance.

I love you, echoed in Amon's mind, but his lips were as still as the mask he wore. The words that came out instead were, “You are a good man, Lieutenant.” He still meant it with the utmost sincerity, which is why his heart swelled when the man beneath him kissed his porcelain cheek. Reluctantly he shifted to search through his desk for napkins to clean the two of them, and briefly his gaze fell on the bottom drawer where he once kept his shot supplies. While grooming himself and his lover, Amon wondered out loud, “You never did tell me how you knew that hormone therapy exists for people of my inclination.”

“You really want to know?” Jiang replied with a raised brow. A slight nod, and he sighed, then continued with a chuckle, “Well, in my youth I went through a phase and dated a crossdresser, until they realized they were happier as a woman than a man.” His curiosity piqued, Amon hovered over his lieutenant as he listened. “Well, that's the gist of it, anyway; you know better than I do about that stuff. They -well, she- transitioned and I supported her through it, so I know a little bit. We split up on good terms, and we were friends until she passed away.” His lieutenant wore a sad smile as he reminisced, and Amon didn't press any further; he was well aware of why he was considered old for someone like him. “I think you would have liked her,” Jiang said, amusement filling his tone again, “she was like you, but... louder.”

Before Amon could respond, a captain entered his office through the supposedly locked door; at that point he was wanting to just replace the damn lock. Awkwardly all three comrades stared at each other, and the intruder eventually sighed; she had seen worse over the years and was desensitized to her bosses’ affairs. “Mr. Sato sent a telegram stating that he has completed a prototype based off of your revised blueprints, and requests your appraisal. Your car is waiting for you when you two are...decent.” With that the captain left, and Jiang's cheeks were hot from her parting comment.

Amon got up and tossed him his clothes, and Jiang groaned. “Do I have to go?” He asked; he already knew the answer, but he hated being around stuffy rich types.

Instead of lecturing his lieutenant, Amon said while closing his pants, “He just wants us to look at a prototype; I'll do the talking while you look at your new toy.” The other man grumbled as he got dressed, but nevertheless followed Amon out to his private satomobile, getting into the back with him as a grunt acted as their chauffeur. Although long, the drive to the rich side of town and then the Sato Estate was quiet. With the sun setting, there was no one to bat an eye at the terrorists driving past the mansion to the back facility; a servant inducted into the cause guided Amon and his lieutenant to Hiroshi’s office, where they were greeted by the stout man.

With a straight face Jiang listened to his superior and Mr. Sato exchange pleasantries, waiting patiently until the latter lead them deeper into the factory, marvelling internally at all of the machinery they passed to reach one of the testing rooms. When the room lit up, so did his eyes; Amon nodded to his lieutenant, and with a grin Jiang strode over to the far end of the room to go over Sato's newest invention, out of earshot.

“An electrical glove designed to deliver an incapacitating shock to anyone it comes into contact with. The design still needs some refinement, but it should be ready for production soon, with your word,” Hiroshi explained proudly to Amon, who only half listened as he watched his lieutenant try on the glove. The contraption’s creator noted, “Is he always like this with new gear?”

“The man loves his electrical devices,” Amon returned, smiling behind his mask. His lieutenant waved at him as the glove crackled with electricity, and he had to resist the urge to acknowledge the gesture.

Sato had been fairly quiet that evening, which was fine by Amon's standards, but after a moment Hiroshi broke the pleasant silence, saying, “I apologize for not being so talkative at this time; the anniversary of my wife's passing is coming up.” Amon nodded in understanding, the most comfort he would afford the other; Hiroshi was a very personable man, whereas Amon tried to keep him at an arm's length. Understanding the need to surround himself with useful people to further his cause, Amon did enough to make sure his ally knew he appreciated Hiroshi’s loyalty, which included holding conversation with him. Not many deep topics were discussed, but Hiroshi did attempt to probe into Amon's personal life from time to time; quietly he asked, “Have you ever been in love, Amon?” He almost couldn't imagine the enigma of a man having such human emotions, but he needed someone to share his grief with, to feel a connection to.

After a moment of hesitation, Amon surprised both himself and Hiroshi with his honesty as he simply replied, “Yes. I still am.”

Briefly his eyes widened, then shaking his head, Hiroshi muttered, “Then you understand the fear of failing to protect who you hold most dear. I hope you never know this agony.” Silence fell on them once more, and as they watched the lieutenant together Hiroshi caught a glimpse at the intense look in Amon's eye. There was a passion in that gaze that he would only hear in his leader’s voice when the latter spoke of revolution, and he realized who Amon was creating his new world for. “It's your lieutenant, isn't it,” he asked rhetorically, “the one you love.” The other man ever so slightly nodded. “I should have known; you two are already practically attached at the hip,” Hiroshi said cheerily, trying to make light of the situation. To assure the revolutionary he took the revelation seriously, he added, “I still mean what I said earlier. I have full faith that the outcome of our cause will be in our favor.”

As his lieutenant approached them with a pleased look on the exposed part of his face, Amon said, “As do I, Mr. Sato.” He spoke with such confidence that he was able to fool himself that there wasn't a part of himself his lieutenant made him want back again.


	12. Permafrost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: self harm mention

Winter was a bittersweet time for Amon. It meant colder, shorter days, meant less people out on the street, meant his lover snuggling closer to him at night for warmth. It meant wishing his brothers and sisters well before sending them home early for the winter solstice festival every year, while he and his lieutenant enjoyed a long, quiet night to themselves. He welcomed all of that in stride, and crisp air welcomed him in return every morning as he woke up early to watch the sun rise over pristine snow blanketing a slumbering city. His lieutenant didn't care one bit about winter, had grown up in in a much hotter climate, but Amon ignored his protests, still insisted on drinking his morning tea on their balcony. If he closed his eyes, he was at home.

Winter also brought other memories that were not welcomed, brought him great sadness in his heart. Ghosts who whispered in his ear and tore at his conscience, who still haunted him even after he was born anew. Places and people he wished to forget came to him in the quiet of the night, when everyone else in the city but him had fallen asleep. Running away from himself didn't deter them, so Amon buried himself in his work or watched the snow as it fell, the last pure thing in this world. Usually it soothed his soul.

But still the ghosts remained; as a very political minded person Amon read the newspaper every morning to keep track of all the hottest topics, all the newest policies, and all the politicians worth their clout. When the column he read began with the mentioning of a new council member, an eyebrow raised behind his mask and he peered more intently at the print to read the speech from the new councilman. Then their name caught his attention, and Amon's stomach dropped. He never would have thought that Tarrlok would come to Republic City; it had been so easy to pretend he wasn't real when he was back at the North Pole, but now Amon couldn't deny his true past, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

“Amon?” His lieutenant said with concern as his knuckles turned white as he held the newspaper. Just as quickly as his bad memories washed over him, Amon composed himself and cleared his throat, then set the paper down on his desk.

“What do you make of this new councilman?” He asked nonchalantly, as if asking about the weather.

Jiang shrugged. “He seems like any other greedy politician in this city,” he replied honestly.

“You're probably right,” Amon conceded, then dismissed the other from his office. They didn't discuss it further, but over the next few weeks the revelation weighed on his mind, unbeknownst to the other. Winter brought out a certain eccentricity from the man, so Jiang didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, didn't question how Amon started to get broodier and more aloof, didn’t put two and two together until he came home to a scene. His lover had left work early without telling him, which already set off an alarm bell, and when he entered their apartment the first smell that assaulted his senses was alcohol, a smell he was all too familiar with. Then he heard sobs, and any comments Jiang had died on his lips.

None of the lights were on, so Jiang followed the sound of his leader into the bedroom, almost tripping over an empty bottle, and froze in the door frame. He could make out several more bottles of rice wine drank dry on the hardwood floor, and Amon's half naked frame curled up and trembling. Instinctively Jiang rushed to his side and examined him; he had never seen the other man drink in excess or ever shed a tear before, but there was Amon, breath reeking of booze and crying behind his mask. Panicking, Jiang held his lover close to try calming him down and the other clinged to him, too drunk to care about his disaffected reputation.

“I can't, I can't…” Apparently he was too drunk to hold his tongue either, for Amon blubbered, “It’s my fault. It would have been his birthday.” Who's he didn't know, the two ghosts who haunted him one in the same, all he knew was that his soul was heavy with a lifetime of agony. With his hands he searched for purchase against his lieutenant's clothes as his misery threatened to drown him.

“Amon, what's wrong? What are you talking about?” Jiang pleaded, stroking the other's shuddering back. His chest quickly became soaked in tears as Amon buried his face in it. “Amon, I'm here, please…” he trailed off; he considered himself to have a thick skin, but seeing someone so proud, someone who he loved so much, reduced to...this, genuinely unnerved him more than any torture an enemy could inflict upon him. For the rest of the night he held Amon in silence as the other cried until his tears dried up, until his breathing became even, then heavy to indicate he had passed out. At some point Jiang had taken off his uniform and climbed back into bed to cuddle his lover, but when he woke up the spot next to him was empty.

Usually it wouldn't worry him, but when he noticed the shards of a broken bottle on the floor and bloody handprints on the back of his discarded shirt, he rushed out of bed in his boxers and over to the glass door to the balcony. Outside was Amon sitting cross-legged on the ground in just a pair of sweatpants, and Jiang thought, in addition to the emotional breakdown last night, that the other had gone absolutely mad. With a huff he poked his head out and hissed, “Amon, get in here!”

“Why?”

Dumbfounded, Jiang blinked and retorted, “Because it's cold outside! It's snowing!” Amon then looked up and reached out to catch a snowflake, watching it melt in his palm. Groaning, Jiang shut the door and retreated back inside, only to return swaddled up in the thick bed comforter. From the doorway he noticed Amon pull out a slip a paper, a photograph. Jiang stood still as he observed the scene unfold, his lover tenderly trace what he made out to be the face of a small child. Feeling like he was intruding, Jiang cleared his throat, and the photo was quickly hidden from his sight. Only his face and feet poked out of his cocoon as he sat down next to the other, and, not wanting a repeat of last night, of the nightmares from before, he asked, “Amon, is that who you were upset over?”

With a heavy sigh, Amon closed his eyes and rested his hands on his lap. “It's a long story,” he finally said, feeling numb, and not because he was cold.

“I’ve got the time to listen,” his lieutenant murmured as he rested his head on Amon's shoulder. Gazing up at the porcelain mask, piercing, icy blue eyes peered back down at him before darting to the horizon.

“The person I had been with before you had been a man, an arrogant firebender,” Amon explained, then snorted. “I know; I was young and I was still naive about how the world worked. What we had was more of a casual fling, but I still cared about him in a way. Which is why when I...when we conceived a child, I thought he would stay.” His lieutenant stared at him oddly, trying to imagine Amon of all people pregnant, and realized he couldn't. 

Amon continued, “I was wrong. He left me when I told him and I was on my own. It was...a hard nine months, but when I had that child, it was like I had been reborn. I got my act together and tried to do everything I could for that boy, but it wasn't enough.” A snowflake fell on one of his fingertips, so innocent just like the son he once had; just like him, it slipped through Amon's fingers. “Coming home to him made everything worth it,” Amon reminisced sadly, “but after a year of going on like that I realized...I couldn't do it. I nearly lost him to a bad cough because I wasn't..." He trailed off hoarsely, the memories becoming too painful to relive; he remembered holding the pitiful infant in his arms, fearing every gasping breath would be the last. Amon kept that part to himself. "I couldn't be the father my son deserved, so I left him at an orphanage. That was...eleven years ago, I believe,” Amon calculated; it felt like a lifetime ago, and in a way it was. Three years after forsaking his son, he had then forsaken his name.

It was clear to Jiang that his lover still hadn't forgiven himself for this dark secret; remembering the piece of glass he found, he glanced over at Amon's arm. To his relief, there weren't any new wounds next to the faded scars that had broken his heart the first time he saw them several years ago. Noticing his gaze, Amon folded his arms to hide the area and said as if reading his lieutenant's mind, “I won't lie, the urge came to me last night, but...thinking about how you would react stopped me. The only thing I ended up cutting was my hands while holding the broken glass.”

Unsure of what to say, Jiang opened up his blanket nest and hugged Amon as he was overwhelmed with emotion. It provided him some solace that he was able to bring that much comfort to his lover, especially when the other had the same effect on his own bad habit. Tenderly he took a hold of Amon's hands so that he could examine the other's palms; he placed an apologetic kiss to each jagged red line. Before the moment passed and Amon could retreat back into his shell, Jiang asked out of curiosity, “What did you name him?”

“I named him after my brother,” was all he would softly admit. “Their birthdays were close together.”

Jiang nodded, then sensed that his lover was dwelling on something else and asked, “What is it?”

After a moment of hesitation, Amon confessed, “I did see that man again. Somehow he found out that I had given up my son, and came back expecting we continue our previous fling. I...I was so furious, Lieutenant,” he said in a low tone, gritting his teeth, “I got into an argument with him, then a fight, and one thing lead to another, and...I took his bending. That's how I discovered my power.”

With an unfazed expression, Jiang inquired seriously, “Do you regret it?”

“Not one bit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by my headcanon that if Amon/Noatak ever had a son, that he would them after Tarrlok.


	13. Identity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this fic hit triple digits earlier in the week, I'm also uploading a longer and improved version of "Monsoon Season" so you guys can enjoy my highest quality of writing. I can't thank every reader enough, as it means a lot to me that people are reading something I put so much effort into. This was probably one of my favorite chapters to write, so I hope you enjoy.
> 
> Content warning: smut

Amon didn't consider himself insecure of his identity, didn't feel like he had any reason to be. He had been fully transitioned for years, no one saw him as different from any other man, few even knew that he was. Yet sometimes he still felt...different. Old habits died hard; some days those old feelings would resurface, and he'd inspect his chest in the mirror before going to work, or sit up in bed and do the inspection by hand. Once soft, rounded breasts were now firm, hard pectorals; the surgery to thank for this had been even more experimental when he had subjected himself to it, a nagging thought that it hadn't sufficiently flattened his chest hard to shake. Sometimes his lieutenant would wake up and watch Amon from his position on the bed, but he wouldn't say anything, didn't want to disturb the other.

It was an unspoken thing for the most part, Amon’s condition; he didn't feel the need to share in depth his past and his former inner struggles, and his lieutenant didn't desire to offer hollow affirmations to a seemingly already confident man. Jiang knew his lover had his issues, but gender identity wasn't one of them. Alone and in private, Amon dealt with any insecurities, every once in a while brooding and dwelling on things as he was inclined to do. Little things still got to him on the rare bad day, such as his height compared to his lieutenant; there was only a few centimeters difference between them, but when in a mood Amon compared their differences negatively.

He compensated in areas he once felt insecure with over-exaggeration; he was a control freak. He was comfortable enough in his masculinity to not abhor everything soft and subtle, but if Amon wanted to destroy any trace of his former femininity, then behind closed doors he projected it onto his lieutenant, his quiet, compliant lieutenant. Jiang took orders well, was the kind of man to follow another's lead, so if Amon wanted to bend him over his desk and snarl profanities in his ear as he pounded into him, then Jiang would moan and thrust back to meet his leader halfway. Sometimes Amon would undermine his lover's manhood, sneer at the other man about how he took it up the ass from a man who didn't even have a cock, to reaffirm his own. And it only made Jiang grow harder, moan louder.

Sometimes though, Amon would overthink things, get in his head; the fact that he didn't have a proper and well sized member would occasionally weigh on his mind and ruin the mood. He did his best to recover from those moments; once while he was preparing his lieutenant, who was begging Amon to stop teasing him and finally properly penetrate him, he felt the feeling of inadequacy dampen his arousal. Usually he would bottle it up and endure, but as his erection softened, Amon without thinking pulled out and repositioned himself over his lover before slamming his hips down.

It caught Jiang off guard to feel his cock be enveloped by slick, hot inner walls; he had topped before, but never had it been with someone with such anatomy, and he much preferred being on the receiving end during sex regardless. Still, the sensation was arousing, and he moaned loudly as Amon began riding him. Jiang's hands found their way on his lover's hips as thighs thick with muscle straddled him from the side, and large hands found purchase on his chest. It was one of the hottest things Amon had done, Jiang thought, his lover still somehow exuding dominance as he impaled himself with breathy grunts; he could only imagine how the other man's face twisted in pleasure behind the mask, and came quickly that night.

In the following days Amon never brought it back up, almost shaken by what he had done. Oh, he had enjoyed himself, but it was as if something else had come over him; he didn't want to admit how good it felt to be penetrated vaginally. When he was younger Amon had a variety of partners, experimented with all sorts of roles in bed, but his favorite kind of partner were men born male as he loved the contrast between their bodies. Secretly he reveled in his ambiguous parts, and he thought about how much he loved his body as he shut himself in his room one night and recounted the evening he had just had with his lieutenant. He loved having a little cock that poked out of his folds, loved how wet and how hot he would get down there when turned on, loved how good it felt to have his cunt filled. He wouldn't want to be born any other way, Amon thought while touching himself, imagining his lover's phallus in place of his fingers.

His lieutenant then walked in on him like that, and dutifully finished him off.

They continued to dance around the subject, their whole relationship being one of give and take; Jiang had to catch Amon in a receptive mood if he ever wanted the other to bottom again. Although they were equals in their home, divided chores fairly evenly between them, once in the bedroom there were rigid roles, creating a clear power dynamic in Amon's favor. After that first night, though, both enjoyed the rare role reversal, exploring a different headspace.

Amon was preparing dinner for himself and his lieutenant, something he almost never did due to his poor skill. His creation was still edible, so he served it to Jiang who ate it with thoughtful bites. “It's good, I don't think you burned my serving this time,” he critiqued, then chuckled, “You would have been a terrible wife.”

“What are you going to do, make me a good one?” Amon returned snidely, suggestively; it was an invitation, and Jiang took it.

“Well, you already wash my shirts,” Jiang said as he leaned in with a suggestive grin, dinner now forgotten, “let's see what else you can do.”

Amon had to be eased into a submissive role, but he took to it well in time; when the scene started the switch went off and his lieutenant would ravish him. Forced down on his back, he would be divested of his clothes and he would take it like a good ‘wife’; his lieutenant must have memorized all the things Amon said dirty talking to him in the past, for Jiang taunted him to get him all hot and bothered before the touches even came. It was Jiang's turn to take charge, to boss the other around, and he had to admit that he loved the rush it gave him to strip Amon down to just his mask, faceless and depersonalized, to force him down on his knees and his face into the pillow as Jiang pounded into him from behind. Once, Amon even experimented with lingerie just to see how the other would react; the tabooness of the fantasy is what he got off on. If Jiang fucked him well and in just the right spot, Amon would arch his back and purr like a well fed tiger.

After the deed was done though, Amon's internal conflict would continue every time. For years it had been hammered into him that men weren't supposed to have the parts he had, so to be penetrated in such a way challenged his sense of being male. It disgusted him how much he loved it, loved being treated like a body to be used. Amon knew that if he had stayed in the Northern Water Tribe he would have been made to marry young and pump out babies until he had a dozen little snot nosed kids; he didn't want that life, and yet there he was living a parody of it, yearning for something similar.

“Is something wrong?” Jiang asked, noticing Amon was upset; he was back in his submissive role. After cleaning them both up he tenderly wrapped an arm around the other man and pecked his shoulder.

So badly Amon wanted to be taken care of, but he wanted more to be taken seriously as a man. “I don't want to talk about it,” he warned; he could pretend that he didn't have those doubts if he didn't voice them out loud, kept them to himself. Nor did he dare share his fantasies of living a domestic life with his lieutenant so they didn't feel real; Amon would never admit to his lover if he ever had escapist dreams about what their lives would be like if they had civilian jobs, or if he ever wondered if they would have had children and what their names and appearances would have been. No, those were urges Amon tried to suppress.

With a heavy sigh Jiang said goodnight and fell asleep, but Amon remained awake. He felt disconnected from his body as he stared out the window at the city and the moon, the only thing grounding him to reality the other man's embrace. Until the stars started fading from the sky, he stayed up missing things that were and things that never would have been.

He missed being Noatak.


	14. Paternal

It was always hard for them to lose a member of The Equalists. Getting jumped by bender gangs, escapes from the police gone wrong, all scenarios that had resulted in several fatalities since the beginning of their movement. Jiang coped with every loss by taking his frustrations out on training dummies, every punch a shot he'd rather drink to drown his sorrows. Thankfully it didn't happen often enough to create deeper issues, but the infrequency didn't make it easy. It was almost like losing a member of their family.

Amon didn't get such a luxury as coping with his grief; publicly he was strong, had to be, for the sake of his followers. Spoke in front of them of retribution, of honoring memories with action, then stood silent vigil in front of their applauding assent. But on the inside he felt fragile, his delicate porcelain facade masking his inner turmoil. It was his own self-imposed prison, keeping in all of his guilt, guilt for failing to protect the people who he swore to liberate, guilt that his movement was the cause they were in harm's way, guilt that their lives had been cut short for a lie. His lie, the one he told himself every morning when he woke up, in every breath he uttered the name Amon. His brothers and sisters for equality were more like children he tended to than brethren he fraternized with, surrogates for the family he lost long ago.

Jiang would notice Amon withdrawal for a period of time inside himself after a death, barely speak to anyone at work or at home, not even to his lieutenant. It was the same effect the colder seasons seemed to have on the other man, but magnified, days spent isolated in his office or his bedroom, the dull sound of tearless weeping filling the silence. As much as it tore up Jiang inside to see his leader, his lover, so grief-stricken, Amon was inconsolable; unresponsive to his probing, unemotional to his embrace, Jiang felt helpless as he was shut out.

“It's not your fault, you know,” he murmured one night when they were alone, after a new recruit perished at the hands of bender thugs the day before. He placed a hand on Amon's bare shoulder reassuringly, but the latter shouldered it away as he sat on the bed with his back to his lieutenant.

“It's precisely my fault,” Amon muttered, “he was following my orders.” Although names only existed as titles in their group, before this new member had donned the uniform, his familiar dark skin and bright eyes had plucked Amon's heartstrings with their familiarity. The Equalists who reminded him the most of the ghost hanging over his head were always the hardest to lose.

“We had no reason to believe the recruit would be intercepted by Triple Triad gangsters,” Jiang tried to rationalize.

“He was in their territory, Lieutenant,” Amon countered, “I should have done more to protect him.” Realizing he was lashing out at his lover with his own frustrations, Amon turned to apologize; the words died on his lips as he watched his lieutenant shrink back from him with a wounded expression, however. With a sigh, Amon stood up, saying as he got dressed, “At the very least, our routes to safe houses are compromised, so we will have to keep all of our communications over the radio until we create new ones.” As his lieutenant watched him head towards the door, he added, “I...need some time alone,” then left without a trace. Briefly Jiang stared at the spot his leader usually occupied on their bed, then rubbed his face with a heavy groan; sooner or later, he would have to work up the nerve to stand up to Amon when getting the cold shoulder.

He never really understood his leader, what the man thought, what the man did when he wasn't with Jiang. Even if he was granted a glimmer of Amon's internal processes, it barely explained a thing; despite how close they had become, Jiang still felt like he was kept in the dark, knew only so little of the man who he called a lover's personal life. After so long together, all of the half truths and barely answers began to eat at him; it was by complete accident that he even got to learn some of what he knew about Amon, such as his condition. That, and the former existence of a supposed child.

Despite Amon's aversion to bringing the subject up since it having been revealed, Jiang still thought about it, sometimes. Came up with imaginings of what his leader would be like with a son when he was provided with no answers, could hardly picture such a frigid man being so soft with something so innocent, although he still liked to try to. It had since become an indulgence in Jiang’s moments of boredom to daydream of a happier version of his leader, one who was so sickeningly sweet and doting on his progeny that it was borderline amusing, an Amon who sang to his child and smiled just for them. Maybe there used to be an Amon like that, when the man still had a son to care about. But then, Jiang figured he witnessed glimpses of that Amon, or at least whatever shreds of him remained hidden deep down; whenever he was sick or injured, he was nurtured back to health, whenever Amon spoke of his followers, he was akin to a proud parent. Perhaps he subsciously saw his lieutenant as the other parent of their creation, perhaps that caused him to crave a different kind of reaction out of Jiang when they lost a charge.

It began explaining things too, like why Amon took such losses so hard in the first place. Or why he had a special fixation on their benefactor's daughter, little Miss Sato; would grant her his precious attention in the infrequent times they met, would listen with genuine intrigue as Hiroshi boasted about her maturation. Their chance interactions while Mr. Sato was out of his office or as he was walking through the hallways allowed Amon to indulge that withered part of himself that his lieutenant daydreamt of, the part of himself that missed the way his heart swelled when having the adoration of something so fragile, so dependent. But he couldn't take advantage of Asami's longing for her mother, just to soothe the longing in his own soul; he knew how important it was to protect children from his world. She wasn't a sufficient enough surrogate to fill the void in his chest, anyway.

Jiang had gotten used to Amon needing time to himself, even if it meant falling asleep in an empty bed. He accepted that his lover needed space, as much as he wished he could soothe the pain away with his words or his touch. And he told himself that his leader would come to him for comfort if the pain ever became unbearable; yes, everything would return to normal, Jiang told himself, as they performed their daily routine the next day, Jiang ordering around underlings as he left Amon alone to do paperwork.

But then he went to check up on the other; he couldn't help himself, had wanted to make sure his lover was coping with recent stress well enough, only to find an empty office. A wave of nostalgia washed over Jiang, along with dread as he wracked his brain for his options. Amon could have went home, or to any of their safe houses to hide in, but in his heart Jiang knew none of those locations held the significance to his leader to run off to, if he were right about the cause of Amon's absence. No, if Jiang wanted to find Amon, he would have to search the whole city after the other Equalists went to their own homes, scour rain-slick alleyways and rooftops for the familiar mask of the missing man. He was about to give up, wait for the other to return to his side when done with his moping, when he stumbled across his quarry hiding in the shadows climbed halfway up a building, looking like a drenched rat in the rain as the end-winter precipitation covered every inch of the city in freezing sleet. The only thing illuminating the street in the darkness was a pitiful streetlamp flickering against the forming ice, beckoning Jiang to confront Amon. Frustration swelled up unbearably in his chest, then faded as he realized what- who Amon was watching.

“He's down there, isn't he?” He asked.

When his apartment hurt too much to call a home, Amon found himself wander to the same place, the place where he had abandoned his son years ago. His Tarrlok Junior; bitterly he saw the irony of trying to replace his brother, only to lose his replacement. It's what he got for trying to replicate his brother. Guilt for failing his child ate at him either way, flickers of their short life together invading his mind on anniversaries, and drove him to return to that place in the city, in his head, to watch Tarrlok grow up just out of his reach. Fantasies of could have beens became stronger in those moments, visions of what their lives would have been like together, as he stared at the boy he loved so much become a stranger in his absence. Amon didn't have to say anything to confirm his lieutenant's question; the silence was answer enough.

“You know he can't be a part of our world,” Jiang said, heart heavy as the harsh truth left his mouth.

Unable to pry his eyes away from the young teen falling asleep in the building across the street, the masked vigilante knew that it was true, that his son was better off without him. They were so close, but Amon could never have a flesh and blood Tarrlok, only worn pictures and fading memories, all his failures and broken promises; he could never have, only see. It completely consumed him with despair, the kind where his chest felt absolutely gutted and it hurt just to exist. Finding the strength to speak, all he could muster was a weak, “I know.”

Sadly Jiang stared at Amon, unsure of what to say. A shiver passed through his body as the rain soaked his uniform, so he murmured, “...let's go home,” and reluctantly the other turned to follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this wasn't going to be part of the story, it had been sitting unfinished in my scraps folder for several months. But then I had a conversation with my beta reader and we both agreed that Tarrlok Junior didn't feel that impactful to the story just as it was, so I posted this to rectify that


	15. Memories

It was his secret indulgence. Cutting out pictures from articles, hoarding them in a little box with his photographs. Gazing upon his collection with longing eyes when in private. Quietly Amon would pull them out in his loneliest moments, compare each image. Adult Tarrlok had grown into those eyebrows that seemed so big and bushy on his child form, still had that pout sometimes that Amon remembered, though. He told himself every time that it would be the last time, that he would stop scratching the itch, but when he dreamt more and more of Noatak, remembered things he didn't want to, Amon gave in to his little moments of attempted solace.

His lieutenant noticed something was amiss, wasn't daft by any means, but per usual didn't press the issue as long as Amon remained silent. But that became an issue in of itself; Amon didn't lie to him -to Jiang's knowledge- but he kept to himself and that over time put a strain on their relationship. There was very little to talk about but work, if one was refusing to open up, and soon even that had been exhausted. More often than not they would come home exhausted and fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows, or have quick, loveless sex; it wasn't the kind of relationship Jiang wanted. He understood that there was more to be done now with their movement, he really did, and perhaps Jiang was only noticing the other's broody episodes more because they had been together one way or another for almost ten years, but this felt different. Ten years was a long time to be with the same person, maybe Amon was of a wandering heart.

“You seem to have taken an interest in the newest councilman,” Jiang noted in a neutral tone. It was another end of a long day, Jiang sprawled across the couch half dressed as Amon sat at the table, pouring over a newspaper while eating leftover noodles. The latter simply grunted in acknowledgement, so engrossed in the article that he was numb to the world. With a sigh, Jiang listened to the silence before thinking out loud, “I miss when we used to go out.” Back when it was just the two of them, when it was just Amon speaking in bars and his lieutenant watching him, and they would stay and eat once the attention on them died down.

“As in, when I first started to give speeches?” Amon asked, recalling those moments as well; he hardly considered them proper outings between two prospective lovers. His lieutenant hummed in confirmation. From the kitchen Amon blinked as if coming out of a spell, and folded up the newspaper neatly, thoughtfully. “You know we can't do that anymore, I'm too much of a public figure now,” he replied tiredly, pulling off his mask to rub his temples.

“I know,” his lieutenant murmured, forlorn. “It feels like there's a lot of things we don't do anymore.”

Standing up from the table, Amon padded into the living room and cautiously asked, “Why do you say that?”

Shrugging, Jiang sat up as his lover stood behind the couch, hovering over him. Amon was an imposing figure, but his lieutenant wasn't intimidated by his presence; what caused the other man to pause and contemplate his words was his distaste for confrontation with his loved ones. Well, loved one; Amon was all Jiang had left to care about. With that in mind, Jiang carefully said, “You've been preoccupied lately, which usually means something is wrong; I can tell.”

“I've been busy,” Amon replied, curling his fingers into a cushion as he tensed up. Even though he had yet to take off the rest of his uniform, without the mask to hide his expressions, he felt naked.

“I know, Amon,” his lieutenant continued, “but this feels different. You're not too busy to talk to me if something's wrong.” His tone wasn't accusatory, but still Jiang saw how his lover was getting defensive; Amon didn't deal with confrontation well, either.

He didn't deal with confrontation at all. “I don't have to tell you what I'm thinking about. Whatever problems I have I can handle on my own,” Amon countered. In the back of his mind he felt guilty for being argumentative instead of apologizing, but he had grown up in an environment where admitting he was wrong was the worst possible thing to do, and old habits died hard.

His lieutenant didn't stoop down to his level, simply sighed and rubbed his temples as Amon began pacing. “We're together, Amon,” Jiang explained, “you don't have to tell me everything, but you don't have to hide things from me. It makes me worry-”

“Don't worry,” the other man interrupted.

“-that you're not happy,” Jiang continued; Amon paused and stared at him. Suddenly feeling silly for saying his thoughts out loud, Jiang folded his arms and averted his gaze. “Well, not happy with us,” he muttered. “I'm...worried that you're not interested anymore, or that I'm doing something wrong.” As Amon listened, his chest grew heavy with guilt, and with fear. Softly, his lieutenant continued, “Am I right?”

“Of course not!” Amon blurted. His lieutenant didn't seem too reassured by his answer.

“I used to think you trusted me,” the subordinate man admitted. “I'm not as sure anymore.” Every time he thought that he was getting closer to the core of Amon, the latter would close himself off more from Jiang; he felt so close, his lover barely out of reach, but he didn't realize how hopelessly far away he was from ever learning about the man inside Amon.

Heart sinking further, Amon sat next to the other and wordlessly held him. Truth be told, he was simultaneously terrified of being so close to the other man, and of losing him. The closer he was to people, the worse off they were. Amon didn't know what to say, so he continued to embrace his lieutenant in silence, hoping the gesture conveyed his feelings. At first Jiang was stunned, but then he melted into his lover's hold as the arms around him tightened. It felt so good to be hugged by Amon. “It's been...a long time since I've been this open with another person, Lieutenant,” he finally confessed. “There are things I don't like to talk about or remember...I’m sorry.”

Jiang nodded in understanding against the other's chest; he already had an inkling of that. And Amon already had been improving so much, exposing a side of himself that no one else but his lieutenant got to see. “It's alright,” he said, kissing his leader's scarred cheek. “I'm sorry for doubting you.”

But it wasn't alright. It was Amon who was in the wrong, and he bore the guilt as he mulled over his actions, how to make it up to his lieutenant. For never thanking the man for his unconditional love, for never telling him the whole truth. In his office, Amon sat at his desk and flipped through photographs once more as he tried to make sense of his feelings. He was getting better at that, but still he had no reference for apologizing to a lover, resorting to telegraming Hiroshi Sato from his new private line, asking what his ally did when his wife was upset with him. “Usually I would buy her flowers or a present,” Hiroshi sent, “why do you ask?” Amon didn't dignify the other with an answer, and instead thanked him for his response. After thinking it over and formulating a plan, Amon called his lieutenant to his office and said,

“I'm heading home early for the day, so you're in charge. Any information you receive, relay to me tomorrow.” His lieutenant nodded, unquestioning of his orders as Amon had been aloof since they had a heart to heart. As Amon walked out of their base and onto the streets, he had time to reflect on the other's words, and reminisce. The Equalists didn't always work during the day, used to meet up in the wee hours of the night after the workers got off their shifts, but that changed when Sato began funding them, and the grunts could afford to quit their jobs. Nor was their goal always violent revolution; there was once a time where at a glance, The Equalists looked more like an advocacy group instead of a terrorist organization. But that was then, now Amon stayed in his head with his thoughts as he approached a busier street; usually he would take the back alleys home in the darkness so no one could see him, but it was middle of the day, so the shops he wanted to peruse were packed with people.

He did his best to act natural; no one in the market paid him much mind as he perused the stalls, as he hid himself in the crowd. Eventually he stopped at one surrounded with bundles of flowers, and as the florist greeted him, their eyes nearly popped out of their head as they realized who their customer was. “H-how can I help you?” They stammered; Amon didn't waver.

“I'm looking for flowers, ones you would give to a lover,” he said nonchalantly. The florist dumbly nodded, then started rattling off different types of flowers and their meanings and pointed them out. Only half listening, Amon peered at the collection until pale little flowers he recognized from his childhood caught his attention. Forget-me-nots, symbolizing undying love and the promise to hold one dear in memories. These ones were almost the same shade of blue as Tarrlok’s eyes.

Noticing Amon's gaze on the tundra flower, the clerk said, “Oh, scorpion grass, also known as the forget-me-not; they aren't as popular due to their modest appearance, but they're quite charming.” Amon nodded, and paid for a bouquet of them, as well as gave the young florist a generous tip; there wasn't a point to Hiroshi providing him with such large funds if he was going to simply sit on it. After taking the bundle of forget-me-nots into his hand, Amon quickly headed home as it was getting late in the day, and this was just the first part of his plan. Briefly he wondered if the meaning of the flowers would be lost on his lieutenant, but he paid the thought no mind as he ascended the stairs to his apartment.

As the sun started to set, Jiang decided to send everyone home for the day, as work was uneventful. He wouldn’t have much to report to Amon, he mused on the lonely dredge home, he hoped that they could go back to normal and have a nice night to themselves. His lover didn't greet him when he entered the apartment, however; if Jiang was quiet, he swore he could hear Amon grumbling to himself in their bedroom. Sneaking up to the ajar door, he saw the other in his underwear going through the dresser, heard him muttering, “Should I wear a cowl, or would that draw more attention? How casual should I dress? Maybe I shouldn't do this…”

“Do what?” Jiang asked, leaning against the doorway. The way Amon jumped at the sound of his voice was comical. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you,” he chuckled.

“I wasn't startled,” Amon fumed, then looked down at the shirt in his hands with a sigh. He had gotten distracted trying to find the appropriate attire for an outing; remembering the flowers, he grabbed the bouquet from the nightstand and presented them to his lieutenant. “Before I say anything, these are for you,” he said, awkwardly handing them over, “for uh, putting up with me.”

Amon was awkward when trying to be genuine and romantic; Jiang found it endearing. “They're pretty,” he said as he appraised the baby blue flowers, “thank you.” Humming in satisfaction, Amon returned to the dresser and began pulling out one of nicer looking outfits he had. “What are you doing?” Jiang repeated.

“We're going out,” Amon stated simply as he finished dressing himself; when he turned around, his lieutenant was staring at him. “What? You said you missed going out.”

“I do, but usually one asks, ‘do you want to go on a date?’ first.”

“I don't have to ask, because I know you would say yes,” Amon claimed; Jiang snorted, then changed his clothes. Having already chanced it earlier in the day, Amon feared recognition from passersby, but he drew little attention to himself in his civilian clothes, and most strangers did not look at him long enough to notice his mask. No, what drew the most attention to the couple was the fact that they were two older men walking together, holding hands.

“People are staring,” Amon muttered into his lieutenant's ear as they waited in line at a food stand.

“Don't mind them,” Jiang whispered back, intertwining their fingers. He feared no repercussions for being publicly affectionate, as anyone who recognized Amon knew that he wasn't a man to be messed with. The revolutionary did his best to follow his lover's advice, ignoring the eyes on them until it was their turn to place an order. Thinking with his stomach, Amon ordered kebabs that looked appealing, but as they walked down the street he pressed one against his mask, only to realize it was too large to fit through his mouth hole. Awkwardly he glanced down at his kebab after surveying the crowd for any witnesses; usually he would lift his mask up to eat in public, but he was too infamous now to chance revealing his face on a busy street.

“Oh,” Jiang said, noticing Amon's struggle. He did the first thing that came to mind, which happened to be gathering some of his noodles onto chopsticks and holding them up to the mask’s lips for Amon to slurp up. Apparently the man found it less humiliating to be hand fed by his lieutenant. “Want to trade?” Jiang offered the cup of noodles as his lover finished chewing; Amon nodded. Any onlookers found the scene too surreal to bother the two men as they continued to walk and eat. Amon found himself enjoying the outing; pleasant as it was, however, the streets were too busy for his liking, and so they migrated to a nearby park. There weren't any other people inhabiting it at that time of day, although there was a family of turtleducks swimming in a pond that Jiang decided they should watch.

Sitting on a bench, Amon watched the little beasts paddles aimlessly before remarking, “This was nice.” They were still holding hands, and his lieutenant's presence soothed him.

“I agree,” Jiang murmured, tossing the last bits of his food at the turtleducks and watching them swarm the scraps. It felt so domestic to sit there with Amon, on a date in the park, that he almost felt like they were a normal couple. He turned to the other and began, “Listen, I'm sorry for what I said the other day. I know how much you care-”

“No, you were right,” Amon cut him off. “I should be more honest with you, Lieutenant.” It was a promise he knew he wouldn't be able to completely fulfill, and so he went quiet as he stared into the sunset. “No matter what happens,” he began, “I have loved every moment we've been together.” His lieutenant kissed his cheek, and behind his neutral mask was a genuine smile.

When Amon entered his office, he pulled out his collection once more, poured over each picture until he reached the last, his picture of himself and Tarrlok. Taken by some census official a lifetime ago, some of his smiling face still remained undistorted by the burn damage; Tarrlok’s innocence was still fully preserved. A shuddering breath wracked his body, and Amon pulled a forget-me-not from his pocket to place over the image's face. He then locked the pictures back in his desk, and dreamt of Noatak and Tarrlok no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention, the headcanon that Amon carries around a picture of Tarrlok was inspired by this post http://polapaz321.tumblr.com/post/141246091969/the-theory-is-goodthanks-it-make-my-noalok


	16. Gift

It didn't bother Jiang that Amon didn't call him by name, he knew it wasn't out of ill intentions. As a member of The Equalists it was for his own safety and privacy to just go by rank; he eventually figured that ‘Amon’ probably wasn't his lover's real name, anyway, certainly knew it wasn't the man's birth name. Aliases were common in their world, so he couldn't have asked for more from his partner of the past ten years, who had otherwise been honest with him. Amon acknowledged his individuality in their assimilationist movement in other, smaller ways; every year Jiang received something for his birthday, usually new tools or...favors. Last year he fondly recalled waking up to a warm, wet mouth around him. This year they were sitting in their living room, Amon sewing a tear in his uniform by the radio as his lieutenant was on the floor half dressed, with his toolbox and kali sticks spread in front of him, and a bag of his favorite snack in his lap. Eventually Amon stilled his needle and snapped, “Must you eat those disgusting things?”

“What, these?” Jiang replied coyly, rustling his bag; it had a flashy logo on it that read ‘Fang's Flaming Hot Hoppers’. He then popped another chili fried cricket into his mouth and chewed noisily, earning a disgruntled groan from Amon.

“I'm trying to listen to the radio,” the other man complained, “but you're too damn loud eating your...things.”

“I can't help it,” Jiang chuckled, “they're very crunchy, my love.” As he bit one in half Amon shuddered and made an annoyed sound, and he laughed again. Closing the bag, Jiang tossed it to the side and said, “I'm sorry; I'm done eating, so you can get back to your program.”

“Whatever, bug breath, just don't kiss me until you wash out your mouth.” With a huff Amon returned to listening to the news; he had hoped to catch information about the Avatar’s upcoming arrival, but instead some hotshot politicians were having a debate. Unfamiliar with the other cultures of the world, Amon did his best to be open minded about ways other than his Water Tribe upbringing, but insect eating wasn't something he got accustomed to. Growing up, the only creepy crawlies that survived the tundra were pesky gnatsquitoes, which soured his perception of that sort of cuisine; it was apparently more common in his lover's culture. Due to his lieutenant's ethnicity, Amon paid special attention to any fragments of Earth Kingdom culture he came across, including the food the other cooked and the comments he made about his upbringing.

Soon it would be his lieutenant's birthday, and Amon wanted to give something more sentimental than just a shiny new toolset. He recalled some of the sweets the other man fondly mentioned eating as a child, and decided that he wanted to let the man who eased out his soft side relive those memories. Wanting to create something the was his lieutenant's favorite had to coincide with something Amon could feasibly replicate, making finding the right dessert difficult, but then he remembered a pastry that his lover seemed to enjoy. It was called mooncake; every autumn there would be a festival and his lieutenant would come home with a slice for himself, and a slice for Amon once they became intimate. It would probably be much simpler just to buy one, but he knew that it would have meant more if it was homemade, so he had resigned himself to sending an underling with some money to buy him a cookbook earlier in the week.

“Ugh, turn that racket off,” his lieutenant growled, snapping Amon out of his thoughts. The discussion on the radio had shifted to a sensitive topic; Jiang didn't care for politicians debating whether or not he deserved the same rights as them. Amon complied, tuning to a different signal as his lieutenant sighed heavily. After a moment, Jiang muttered an apology as he rifled through his tool box.

Taking no offense, Amon returned to his sewing, humming in satisfaction at the progress; needlework was one of the few things his mother taught him that he took to well. Even if his lieutenant didn't care for the topic on the radio, the revolutionary tried to uplift the mood by saying, “You know, regardless of the laws in place, technically we could get married.”

“Oh yeah?” Jiang asked, facing Amon now with a raised brow. The other man nodded; the only plus side to not legally changing his name and gender.

“I think legally I'm still considered a woman.” Amon couldn't help the amusement in his tone, and his lover scoffed. “Using a loophole to stick it to those self-centered politicians...it would be quite satisfying seeing their pearl clutching.” His partner's gaze grew distant and smile sad, and Amon gave him a curious look.

“It's silly,” Jiang said, shaking his head. Once, he had taken this subject lightly, but not anymore. “That friend I told you about a while back, she made me promise her that if neither of us had met the ‘love of our lives’ by forty, that we would get married for the benefits.”

“You two were close,” Amon noted, and then it hit him. “You were forty when we first kissed, weren't you?”

His lieutenant's eyebrows furrowed with thought, then he shrugged. “I guess so,” he replied.

Amon went quiet, unsure of what to say, as he finished his sewing. After sliding the fixed tunic on, he said, “Come on, we have a rally to prepare for.” Thoughts about birthdays and old memories would have to wait. In the morning, Jiang woke up earlier than Amon, which was a rare occurrence. He rolled over in bed with a sleepy smile to hug his lover, then pecked him on the cheek. Capturing his lips in the next kiss got Amon's eyes to flutter open, and for him to kiss back. “You're in a good mood,” Amon commented as they pulled apart for breath; his lieutenant hummed pleasantly.

“It's my birthday,” Jiang murmured as he rolled on top of his lover, straddling him, “I want to start it out just right.”

Realizing what the other was hinting at, Amon pulled away and said, “Not right now, Lieutenant, I'm not in the mood.” It was a lie; he loved the few days when they got to sleep in and lay in bed with each other until noon, but he knew he couldn't succumb to his desires if he wanted the time to make his surprise. Still, Jiang believed Amon, and they both sat up on the mattress and he sighed. Feeling a pang of guilt, Amon stroked his leg and kissed him apologetically before saying, “Maybe tonight, my love; we have the whole day off. I was thinking that you should go out and enjoy it.”

Part of him feeling like he was getting the cold shoulder, Jiang frowned and asked, “Why?”

“I'm worn out from last night's rally,” Amon half-lied while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, “I wanted to sleep in.” His lieutenant looked at him quizzically, so he added, “Go, and I'll give you my present when you come back.”

Reluctantly Jiang got up and got dressed in civilian clothes as Amon lay back down; once Amon heard him leave out the front door and lock it he climbed out of bed and entered the bathroom. After relieving himself and taking a shower he put on fresh makeup and clothes, then padded into the kitchen and pulled out his new cookbook from its hiding spot. He had made sure that the grunt purchased one about Earth Kingdom sweets, so Amon quickly flipped through the pages until he got to the mooncake section, then muttered a profanity. He didn't know that there was more than one type of mooncake.

Trying to remember which one his lover had favored the most, Amon settled on a smaller looking one that had a flaky crust. Luckily the other man kept their pantry well stocked, he noted while checking for all the ingredients, so he didn't have to go out and buy anything. Having never baked before didn't deter Amon; it was too late to give up now as he didn't have any back up plan, and so he followed the instructions dutifully. Several hours and botched attempts later, he had created a batch that met his standards, and his lieutenant walked back in.

“I'm home, I got you some food if you're hungry,” Jiang announced; he was worried that he had done something to upset Amon, so he had bought Water Tribe food from a stall in hopes of cheering up his morose lover. Setting down the take out bag on the coffee table, Jiang then sniffed the air as Amon walked out of the kitchen, noticing an aroma. “Did you make something?” He wondered in disbelief; Amon nodded.

His mask gave nothing away as he beckoned his lieutenant to sit down at the table, then picked up a covered plate and presented it in front of the other. With a confused look his lieutenant stared up at him, and wordlessly Amon lifted up the covering to reveal three mooncakes; characters had been piped with red bean paste on each one to create the number ‘forty five’ when read together. “Happy birthday,” Amon said softly as he took a seat to face his lieutenant.

“You did this for me?” Jiang wondered out loud, his hand ghosting over one, as if he was afraid to touch them. This was Amon, his impersonal leader, and often aloof lover who had made this; getting him to open up was like pulling teeth, so such sentimentality felt unreal. Considering how much thought and effort had gone into baking these, he had enough tact to not point out that mooncakes were usually reserved for the Mid-Autumn Festival. Noticing that Amon's intense gaze was on him, Jiang reached for the middle mooncake and took a bite out of it, the flavor and memories flooding his senses. “It's just how my mother made them,” he praised with a voice filled with wonder and fondness.

Amon breathed a sigh of relief.


	17. Haunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay; I injured my hand from typing and needed to give it a break
> 
> Content warning: mild smut

Korra tossed and turned in her sleep. It wasn't the first time she had nightmares since coming to Republic City; it was the same one every time. Amon following her down an empty corridor, the shadows restraining her. The masked man advanced on her as her limbs grew heavy, descended on her as she struggled. Fear erupted from her chest, but Korra could barely manage a whisper. That sneering facade taunted at her as Amon loomed over her, appraising her like a spidercat about to tear apart a delicate insect. A hand then suddenly descended down on her, feeling up Korra's cheek before grabbing her chin, forcing her to look into those dark, empty eyes. Amon uttered his promise, then his other hand came down to take her bending.

Amon shot up in bed as he woke up, chest heaving. It was just a dream. A quick glance out the window told him that it was still night; the man beside him didn't stir from his slumber. After his heart rate calmed, Amon carefully climbed out of bed, putting on his mask and a pair of sweats before stumbling out to the balcony to clear his mind. The crisp air nipped at his exposed skin as he stood at the railing, mindlessly watching the city bustling below and the stars fading from the night sky above. It wasn't until the first light of dawn, a faint line of pink on the horizon against a periwinkle sky, that his lover came out and joined him.

“How long have you been up?” his lieutenant asked, offering a steaming cup of tea; spiced black tea, Amon’s favorite in the morning.

“A few hours,” the latter replied, accepting the beverage and letting the cup warm his hands. “I had another nightmare,” Amon admitted, sipping on his tea. They had been increasing in frequency as of late, just when he had almost forgotten what -who- gave them to him in the first place.

His lieutenant had wrapped himself up in a blanket and stood close to him for warmth. Watching Amon with solemn eyes, all Jiang could manage was, “I'm sorry.” After a shiver, he then squeezed his leader's hand and retreated towards the door, saying, “Let's go inside; we have the day off.” Nodding absentmindedly, Amon followed his lieutenant back to bed, falling asleep in his arms. It was a small comfort, but he knew that when he woke up the feelings he was trying to escape would return, whether he was at home or at work. In his office, he found himself more often than not rambling on about the Avatar, instead of focusing on plotting their course of action. It became his lieutenant's job to divert Amon’s attention back to their plans whenever he began to go off on a tangent.

“Amon, the Pro Bending Arena?” Jiang pressed as they conversed in the strategy room. His leader sighed and rubbed his temples.

“My apologies, Lieutenant,” Amon muttered, running his fingers absentmindedly across the tactical map. “I am very...passionate about the Avatar; she is a monument to all of the sins of benders.” A monument to all of his sins. His lieutenant nodded in false understanding, then rounded the table. They were alone, which afforded Jiang some boldness.

“I think you need some help destressing, sir,” Jiang said as coyly as his baritone voice allowed while toying with his uniform. “You need to direct that passion into something else.”

Sir. Such power the title gave Amon. It lit his loins afire, and all his troubles were forgotten. “I think you're right,” Amon replied, grabbing his lover by the belt and nuzzling against his neck. “Do help me with that, my love,” he whispered sickeningly sweetly into the other's ear, before spinning him around and pinning him against the wall. Every second was precious, and so Amon wasted little time stripping his lieutenant down and getting to business. Pressing into his lover, Amon gave no thought to the Avatar as pleasure consumed him.

When that didn't work, and sleep eluded him, Amon wouldn't lay idle, lest the silence turn on him. Not wanting to disturb his resting lover, he would get dressed and leave without telling the other, walk around the city on the rooftops until he felt the pull of sleep beckoning him back home. Oftentimes Amon found himself wander to Aang Memorial Island, would stare up into the visage of the previous Avatar and think. He had been twenty three when Aang died; he thought that he would have felt liberated from his past, but instead he had felt hollow on that day, mourned his loss of purpose by binging in vice. It made it easy for him slip into his new identity, his own real experience of marginalization combined with his sentiment that his life was better before he learned to bend, Amon would try to rationalize to himself. As real as the fabricated memories Amon created for The Equalists felt, bits of reality came back to him in moments of clarity. Korra was his punishment for denying it.

Amon sensed Korra approach long before she spoke. “You!” she spat, a few paces behind him, “What are you doing here?”

He didn't dignify her with an answer, didn't even turn to face her. “A little late for a woman your age to be out, isn't it?” He sneered; Korra huffed. “Sneaking out to enjoy the view with some boy?” Or girl; through observation and conversation with Mr. Sato, Amon learned that Miss Sato quite fancied the Avatar.

“I'm not some dumb teenager you can brush aside!” Korra retorted; apparently he had struck a nerve. He could only imagine the pout she was wearing.

“Maybe so.” Amon didn't underestimate Korra in any way because of her age; no, he took her position very seriously. He teased her because it allowed him, for just a moment, to forget that she was the Avatar, and he had been created to destroy her. Their conflict was far greater than just them as individuals, their clash of ideals; it had been set in motion long before either of them had been born. “There is much that you don't know,” Amon muttered, finally looking away from Aang's face.

“I've had enough of this,” Korra growled, stepping closer. Her fear of Amon was nothing compared to her desire to bring justice down on him. “I should turn you in now and be done with you.”

Amon turned around and sized her up, then replied, “That relies on the presumption you can defeat me, Avatar.” For a moment the two stared at each other, then Korra shot a burst of fire at the vigilante that he easily dodged. He lunged at her, just like in her dreams, and Korra almost lost her nerve before her adrenaline kicked in and she sidestepped Amon. This close, she could see the color of his eyes, the same icy blue as hers boring into her soul intensely from an apathetic mask. She couldn't give it much thought as the assault continued, every second she had spent countering the other. Amon’s every movement was purposeful, cold and calculated, attempting to strike Korra in between shots of fire and water.

He was fearsome so long as he was assumed untouchable. Korra saw an opening and took it, punching Amon square in the jaw when he attempted to grab her. The porcelain crunched satisfyingly underneath her fist, and as he recoiled Korra surged forward. But she was too reckless, for as she raised her arm to swing at Amon again, he ducked and grabbed her throat, raising her while making the most inhuman growl. As her feet dangled above the museum roof she choked and thrashed her legs, attempted to claw at the hand around her. Silently Amon squeezed down harder, and for a moment Korra thought that he would strangle her to death; he did, too. Finally he threw her to the ground, hissing, “Not yet, Avatar. I'm not finished with you.” He would take his time to relish their game of cat and mouse, and erase her image in due time. He made his escape as Korra gasped for breath, running into the shadows and towards the inner city; by the time she rose to her feet, he was gone.

That night, Amon of dreamt of Noatak, dreamt that he was running. Running from hands that grabbed at him, but his legs were too slow to outrun them. Hands that held him down when he tripped on slick ice, hands that defiled him, beat him, until his bones threatened to break and tears to spring from his eyes. A ragged voice he had tried to forget taunted him, scolded him, for running away from his past, from himself. The ranting continued until a heavy blow came down on his head.

Korra woke up in her room, shuddering, and not from the cold. It was just a dream.


	18. Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: smut and choking

“You have quite the temple here, councilman,” Amon sneered, watching two underlings retie the ropes around said man's and his children's wrists, “but I think I'm going to repurpose it for less...spiritual activities.” He was attempting to get under the other man's skin; so far he got Tenzin to bristle up and give him the silent treatment. After the grunts finished their duty, they filed out of the cell and stood guard at the other end of the room, and Amon leaned in against the bars. “My lieutenant and I are going to particularly enjoy debasing your bed,” he added in a low tone, and he darkly chuckled at how red Tenzin’s face turned. “Every inch of your bedroom, violated by our coupling-”

“Over my dead body,” Tenzin barked, struggling against his restraints.

But already Amon was done playing mind games with the soon-to-be former airbender, saying with the turn of his back, “You are powerless to stop us, just as you were to stop our invasion.” He then nodded to his subordinate Equalists as he passed by them, and descended the stairs to meet with the rest of his followers.

The taking of Air Temple Island hadn't been easy, but it was a well earned victory that served to surmount their aggressive takeover of Republic City. Already he had delegated to his captains the task of leading teams cleaning up the mess that had been made, and supervised them as he made himself at home in the councilman's and his wife's chambers. He had prepared some clothes and his keepsakes earlier in anticipation of this moment, but otherwise moving in didn't require the transferring of many objects, Tenzin’s furniture in much better condition than his own. Amon reclined on the bed to relax after he addressed the Equalists present on the island. There were dozens of losses to mourn, but a successful insurrection to remind them of that boosted their spirits. All things considered, his life was finally going well.

He had bloodbent more in the time Korra had been in Republic City than in the past ten years he had been Amon; taking away so many benders’ powers adversely affected him, left him twitchy even on that night of a half moon. Feverishly he undid his belt and tunic, his fingers trembling as he fumbled with each button, before casting them off and sliding a hand down his pants. With breathy grunts he rubbed his overgrown clit, intent on releasing his nervous energy figuratively and literally; he was already half hard, but after several moments of futilely stimulating himself he groaned and stilled his hand. It alone wasn't enough.

Poking his head out from behind the bedroom door, Amon relayed an order to the captain stationed at his bedroom. “Send word for my lieutenant,” he barked, then slammed the door shut and stormed back to bed. He was too worked up to temper his aggression, his blood boiling, loins burning. It only became more intense in his lieutenant's absence, every second a maddening eternity as he waited for his respite.

“You summoned me?” Jiang began as he entered the bedroom, but whatever he was going to say next escaped his mind when he took in the sight before him. With his pants around his thighs was Amon, hair askew as he was hunched over and touching himself. Realizing what was needed of him, Jiang locked the door behind himself as his leader lurched up and all but pounced on him.

“Need you,” Amon growled into his lieutenant's ear, grabbing for his hands and pressing the lips of his mask against the other's neck. A deep rumble escaped his lips from his chest as he lead his lieutenant to the bed, doing so in such a rush that Jiang almost tripped over his leader's discarded boots and gauntlets on the floor. Amon fell back-first onto the mattress, his lover on top of him, and pawed at the other man's clothes until he was able to divest him of his harness and mask. It was desperate, even for Amon; although the intercourse between them often could barely be called making love, there were times when the revolutionary was in a particularly rough mood, that night being one of them.

“What are you in the mood for?” Jiang asked as he ran his hand over his lover's crotch, the other bucking upwards as he ached for more. He nibbled along Amon's stubbly jawline as the latter replied,

“Anything. Everything.” His lieutenant's fingertips teased his opening as he spoke, causing him to shudder. Yearning for them to impale him, he let out a dissatisfied huff when his lover pulled away.

Shaking his head, Jiang chuckled, “Patience, my love.” He then positioned himself between Amon's legs so that he was face to face with the weeping opening after yanking the other's pants and underwear off. In anticipation Amon fisted the sheets before he lieutenant started sucking his tip, throwing his head back with a breathy curse when he felt that wet mouth surround him. Far from the reserved, reluctant lover he had been when their relationship began, Amon panted and arched into his lieutenant's touch, his tongue which delved between the spread folds below. This close Jiang could smell his leader's musky arousal, inhaled it with every breath he took between flicks of his tongue. Every desperate moan he elicited from the other increased his own, his pride and his cock swelling knowing that he was Amon's undoing.

As his lover's essence dripped down his chin, Jiang propped himself up on one elbow to undo his pants and stroke his erection. Amon's head rolled back uselessly as he neared completion, his constant writhing causing his shirt to ride up and reveal his tensing abdominal muscles. His whole body trembled as heat pooled in his groin; Jiang could tell climax was imminent from the way Amon’s toes curled and hips jerked. Indeed, with a shuddering sigh he came in his lieutenant's mouth; it wasn't the same as a heavy cock releasing it's seed down his throat, but Jiang had grown to love lapping up his lover's juices all the same.

For a moment Amon was still, keening as Jiang licked him clean, but then he fidgeted impatiently. “I need more,” he more demanded than begged, repeating the sentiment over and over until his lieutenant stripped naked, loomed over him, and forced into him. “Yes,” he hissed, closing his eyes in pleasure as his lover rocked into him. Amon had needed this, needed his lieutenant to help him forget. He didn't want to think about the inevitable retaliation of The United Republic Forces, or the details of securing Air Temple Island, or how intensely his blood boiled, no; he wanted to be so consumed by pleasure that his darkest memories felt foreign to his own body, that he became somebody else. It didn’t take long for his lieutenant to reach climax and come in him, and a second wave of Amon’s orgasm washed over him.

For one brief, blissful moment, he was whole.

With a satisfied sigh Jiang pulled out of his lover, and a dull hollowness settled in Amon’s lower regions. His lieutenant's head fell on his chest, and as he tried to catch his breath Amon stroked the back of the other man's head. Light kisses travelled up his throat as heavy rain pelted the window, and with a groan he shifted to stare between their bodies. “What is it?” Jiang mumbled languidly.

Amon compared the size of his cock to that of his lieutenant's; pressed together, it was easy to gauge the size difference between them. “My size is…” he grumbled, face growing hot behind his mask. Although through transitioning he had grown quite considerably, his lieutenant dwarfed him in that area.

“Amon,” Jiang chuckled in disbelief, “it's good enough for me.” It was the honest truth -he’d even think to himself that the other's genitals were cute- but his leader seemed unconvinced.

“You're nearly twice my size,” Amon muttered as he folded his arms.

Sitting up to scratch the back of his head, his lieutenant sheepishly replied, “I'm not that big.” He considered himself fairly average in every aspect except for height, but that wasn't the issue at hand. Jiang added, “You're just the right size for me; let me show you.” Intensely Amon watched his lieutenant grind against his overgrown clit, reviving it to an erect position. “I prepared myself earlier so we could celebrate our victory.”

“How thoughtful of you,” he teased, his arousal returning. His lieutenant hummed in satisfaction as Amon sat up and rested his hands on the other's waist, nuzzled against his neck. As they rocked against each other the storm outside picked up in fervor, the rain drowning out the noise of their coupling. With the edge taken off, Amon was able to enjoy a slower pace, able to draw out his release instead of rushing to it. Sweat gathered at his lieutenant’s brow, beaded down the curves of their muscles, as Jiang rode his leader; despite Amon’s misgivings about his member, it pressed deep into the spot that brought Jiang to euphoria. To see it written across his every feature and hear it in every drawn out, baritone moan fueled Amon's dominant persona.

No matter how long he drew it out, they were coming to the end. “Tell me that you love me,” Amon growled, drunk on power. Thundercracks illuminated the room as the candles began to burn out, and Jiang's breathing desperate, erratic.

“I love you with all of my being,” his lieutenant replied honestly, that very body trembling from overuse.

“Tell me that you would follow me through anything.” Eyes intense as a butane fire burned behind the cold, static visage as they analyzed Jiang.

“I would follow you to the depths of oblivion itself.”

At his answer, a hand shot towards Jiang's throat and a gasp was forced out of him as the grip tightened; out of survival instinct he grabbed Amon's wrist, but he did not fight back. Only a few centimeters separated their faces, and this close Jiang could feel his leader's hastening breaths fan across his cheeks as he himself struggled for air, feel the danger in his narrowed eyes. He knew from experience he wasn't in real danger, even as Amon said in a low tone, “I could send you to oblivion right now if I accidentally choked you in the wrong spot.” As if to demonstrate his claim, he squeezed down harder to elicit raspy groans from his lieutenant. How much it excited Amon when he hurt others no longer disturbed him. He continued, “But you would die for me, wouldn't you?”

Amon lifted his thumb just enough that his lieutenant could wheeze, “Yes, sir!” His erection, still standing at attention despite the lack of oxygen, was testament to the unbearable amount of arousal pulsing through the man's veins.

With a satisfied hum, Amon released his lover's throat before saying, “Tell me what you are.”

Jiang's legs tightened around his lover's waist and his fingers interwove into chestnut hair, and he bellowed, “I am yours, all yours!”

“Then cum for me, my lieutenant!” Amon ordered, and gladly his lieutenant released all over his stomach. His own essence pooled between his thighs soon after, then they fell unto the bed in an ungainly heap of spent, panting flesh, and listened to the rain softly pitter outside.


	19. Reunited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought that Tarrlok’s explanation in the show of how he discovered Amon's true identity was kind of meh/wasn't dramatic enough, hence this chapter

There was one prisoner Amon was loathe to deal with. He was able to put it off with how busy he had become; he had many directions to give out, underlings to stop and redirect as they secured Republic City. After he had several place some of his furniture in his new office, he ushered them out to check his things and make sure everything was in order; going through his desk, Amon rediscovered his old mementos. Although he always carried his picture of one of his Tarrloks in the back of his pocket and thoughts, the ones of the councilman had gathered a layer of dust hiding from him. Just as a starved man can't resist food, Amon leafed through every photo, every article clipping with longing eyes, before sneaking the oldest into a pocket and setting the rest aside to tackle paperwork. It was futile, but he attempted to lose himself in the repetitive task to distract himself from the thoughts buzzing in his mind. His lieutenant came in at some point with updates, which he only half listened to.

“...and the grunts guarding the prisoners requested for you,” Jiang continued, and noticed his leader's shoulders tense up. “The Water Tribe councilman has been giving them trouble, was even asking to see you earlier today.” Amon sighed.

“I guess all these files can wait for the almighty Tarrlok,” he said sarcastically before standing up.

“I can take care of those for you,” Jiang offered; Amon pressed the mouth of his mask against his lieutenant’s cheek in an appreciative kiss as he passed by through the doorway. The other man was always there to take care of him. Wordlessly he ascended up to temple attic converted into a holding cell, subordinate Equalists in the halls deferring to him as he walked by. The airbenders had been taken out that morning and were being transported for the upcoming Equalist victory rally, and now a lone former bender sitting behind the bars was all that remained. The once proud Tarrlok looked like pitiful vermin in his cage.

“What happened to him?” Amon asked one of the grunts watching the prisoner, “I was told he was being insufferable, that it was urgent I come down.”

Behind her mask, the lower ranking Equalist smirked and responded snidely, “A few whacks to the back of the head shut him right up.” Her leader stared intently at the disgraced councilman, and she added, “He shouldn't be too rattled, if you need him with the other benders.”

“That won't be necessary. I will take care of the councilman, go assist your brethren with transporting the airbenders,” Amon ordered, dismissing his followers from their post. He took the keys off of one of the guards before they scurried out, then he locked the door behind them. Despite his relationship with the other man, Amon hadn't afforded Tarrlok any comforts; his hair was unkempt from the aforementioned scuffle and he had nothing but a hard wooden floor to rest on. Slowly Amon came forward, silently staring at him with his hands behind his back, sizing him up. Tarrlok stared right back at him with narrowed eyes and a curled lip, and for a moment Amon thought the other man could see right through the mask. Oh, how time had changed them both.

Unable to bear with the deafening quietness, Tarrlok snapped, “Well, what do you want? You're not going to break me with the silent treatment, or by letting your cronies beat me!” He then stood up, impassioned, and started raving when Amon didn't respond. “I'm a man of high standing, you know! You can't just keep me locked up here forever; people are going to come looking for me! You and your radicals will be sorry for taking away my bending!” Still Amon didn't budge, watched him through that smug, disinterested mask; Tarrlok became frantic. “I...I mean it; I want you to give me back my bending!” He exclaimed as he grabbed at Amon's tunic through the bars. “You can reverse it, right? Just undo whatever you did and let me go! I won't say anything; I'll even pay you!” What a disgrace he was, resorting to bargaining with Amon like the radical was another politician to buy off.

This wasn't the Tarrlok he had loved.

“Let go of me,” Amon hissed, causing the other man to recoil. “I do not want anything from you,” he continued as he straightened the front of his coat, “not any money or information. If that was your reason for requesting me, it was pointless, for you are one of us now.” This certainly wasn't going well; briefly Amon felt a pang of guilt, wondering if there was anything more he could have done for the man who he once called brother. Although he initially had no intention of revealing his disguise to Tarrlok, his building obsession would not allow him to simply step away and not indulge his curiosity. Instinct told Amon to start moving his feet, to walk out the door and forget about the past and done, but temptation kept him in place, and less harshly he said, “What I need from you is the truth. Can you do that for me, Tarrlok?”

Blinking in confusion, Tarrlok took a deep breath, then nodded. Idly Amon began to pace. “How is your mother?” he asked eventually.

“...dead,” the councilman replied simply. “She died before my political career began.” He had been in his early twenties, working at a crappy internship in the capital when he received the news; at that point, it hadn't been unexpected.

Although a pang of guilt tore at his heart, later Amon would have time to mourn and reflect. Without missing a beat he pressed, “And your father?”

Tarrlok blanched; he did not recall the man fondly. “He died before her.”

Finally Amon stopped, facing away from his little brother and staring at the side wall. He contemplated his next words; having gone this far, he uttered, “Did you have any siblings, councilman?” His tone didn't waver, but his heart pounded, as if he was afraid of the answer. Yes, a sister.

“N-no,” the other man hesitantly replied. Amon wasn't sure if that hurt even more.

“Liar,” he growled; Tarrlok jumped. “Lying must have been something you inherited from your father, Tarrlok,” Amon sneered, and the other man's eyes narrowed. “Yes, I know about him; you were sired by the crime lord Yakone after he went into hiding. Such a shameful thing, isn't it? What I don't understand is why you never admit to having an older sibling, unless you were ashamed of them, too.”

“That's not true!” Tarrlok retorted as he got into Amon's face, visibly unnerved. “I don't have...that man's not...how could you possibly know all this?”

“I was there.”

At first Tarrlok was confused, brows furrowed in thought, but as he analyzed the mask of his captor for any deception, he saw behind it eyes as bright a blue as his. Dumbfounded, he stumbled back a step and murmured, “...Noatak? I...I thought you were dead.”

“Noatak is dead,” Amon said coldly. “I have been reborn into my movement.” It had been so long since he had heard his real name that he barely even responded to it; his birth name, once poison to his psyche, now escaped him. He wondered if Tarrlok still remembered it.

“Bullshit,” Tarrlok growled, “that was your name and you hated being called anything else!” He at the very least remembered all the nights he'd listened to Noatak cry about the unfairness of the world, all the times he'd held the other and comforted him, made him smile by calling him big brother. As little as Tarrlok had been, he cared so much for his older sibling; now, Tarrlok was conflicted, revolted by his presence.

“Names are just labels we choose for ourselves,” Amon didn't take the bait, even if internally his emotions were churning. As much as it killed him to say, he muttered, “Noatak was a name I had given myself, too. It's no different.”

“What happened to you!” Tarrlok snapped with a dramatic wave of his hands. This was all too unreal. Long ago he'd given up hope on ever seeing Noatak again, but he'd thought he'd have been happy to find out his brother survived the blizzard; instead all he felt was dread. The compassionate, troubled boy he'd known and loved was the very militant monster who he despised. He just had to know why, an explanation for what went wrong. Tarrlok begged, “Why did you do all of this?”

Amon scoffed; to him it was as obvious as the sun was bright. “You know why,” he grumbled, “because bending is a tool of the oppressors to stay in power. In our current world technology makes it obsolete, but the system in place clings to it to keep the status quo. Bending corrupts; it is why greedy men like you always need more land, more money, more power. Without your bending, you are equal to the people your government condemns to squalor.”

“Oh, spare me of your lecture and step off your soapbox,” Tarrlok groaned as he waved Amon off, but some of his brother's words still stung. Did Noatak think so little of him now? Did he not miss Tarrlok? Then again, he was one of the ‘oppressors’, Tarrlok mused; The Equalists had a black and white thinking and did not care about their enemy.

“Your dismissiveness of my cause proves my point,” Amon griped. “Those who are privileged do not care about the plight of those who are disadvantaged.”

“Is...is this all to get back at our father for how he treated you for not being born a boy?” Tarrlok asked in disbelief.

“No,” Amon fumed, folding his arms, “do not be so dense, Tarrlok. This is about bending. Yakone's abuse of his power may have been the catalyst, but this is bigger than just one man.”

Even with Amon's denial of the accusation, Tarrlok’s mind still dwelled on the subject. His brother's voice was so deep now, so masculine; he wondered what the other looked like underneath that disguise. The last time he saw Noatak, Tarrlok knew the other was...distressed about some of the changes his body was going through. He wondered out loud, “How did you make your body so…”

“Male?” Amon said, finishing his brother's sentence for him. He omitted his previous use of bloodbending, lest he seem a hypocrite. “Such is the wonder of modern medicine. My body is indistinguishable from that of a man like yourself in almost every way, at the cost of an injection every other week,” he explained proudly.

Tarrlok was impressed; he didn't think such a thing possible. A part of him was happy for his brother that Noatak was able to obtain the body he’d desired, but this wasn't supposed to be how it happened, how his brother's story went. He was supposed to be free. Sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, Tarrlok stared at the man before him as he bittersweetly thought back on every conversation they once had, searched his memories for the warning signs he had missed. He himself hadn't turned out that great either, he mused as he looked down at his hands and took in his new reality. “You were free,” Tarrlok murmured, as Amon turned to leave.

“What was that?”

“You weren't under our father's control anymore, and obviously found a way to change your sex,” Tarrlok said, and his brother paused. “I don't understand why this is what you chose to do with your new life.”

“Why did you choose to become a corrupt politician?” Amon countered, fo it was an illusion either of them had a choice in life once Yakone made the decision for them to become bloodbenders. But before he could spin around and continue, there was a knock on the door.

“Amon, are you almost done?” his lieutenant asked; it was time for the new world to begin. Torn between two worlds, the visionary hesitated before responding, telling his lieutenant to wait one more moment.

More quietly, for just Tarrlok’s ears, Amon muttered, “There are some things you can never recover from.” Leaving Tarrlok to ponder his words, Amon joined his lieutenant's side in the hallway.

“Are you okay?” Jiang asked with a tender hand on his leader's arm, sensing how tense Amon was. At his touch, he could feel his lover relax, become resolved again.

“I'm fine,” Amon said, returning to his lie. He was so tangled in his own web that he no longer knew how to escape.


	20. Happy We're Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: suicide

The ocean breeze was cool and salty on their faces as Noatak captained the speedboat containing himself and his brother. They hadn't talked much during their escape, Tarrlok staring at his back with an unreadable expression, and Noatak refusing to look at his sibling at all. It hadn't been easy for him to infiltrate Air Temple Island to return to the other man, what with it crawling with Equalist members and police officers alike, but he wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he had abandoned Tarrlok once more. Again Noatak presented it as a choice, much less aggressive this time, but just as desperate; he had been honest when he said, “Please, you are all I have left in this world.” He didn't want to think about the man he was leaving behind to have this opportunity.

Despite everything, Tarrlok accepted. Running high off an adrenaline rush, Noatak helped his brother down to the docks and boarded the speedboat he had once reserved to embark on this escape with a different man. He didn't waste any time settling on a destination before they took off, not that he had one in mind, anyway. Where could they even go? Their parents were dead; although Noatak would shed no tears over the bastard who had sired him, he regretted that he wouldn't be able to apologize to his mother for everything. The Northern Water Tribe would have been unlikely to welcome Tarrlok back with open arms, anyway. News travelled fast, and there weren't many places untouched by modernization they could flee to. They would just have to carve out one for themselves, Noatak decided, as they left the bay behind.

Somberly Tarrlok watched the waves pass by them, swallowing up the mainland as the ocean stretched on for eternity. He wasn't the dreamer his brother was; they had changed just as water crushed stone, had been weathered down to their dark cores. Two flavors of the same depravity, and Korra's words haunted him, You're just as bad as Amon. No matter what his brother called himself, there would never be a place in the world for them.

“Do you have anyone who is going to miss you?” Noatak asked out of the blue, jerking Tarrlok back to reality. “A spouse? Any children?” He already knew the answer, having obsessively followed Tarrlok’s political career for years now, but wanted to hear it for himself.

“No,” Tarrlok replied, then closed his eyes and rested his head back against the seat, listening to the boat’s motor and the ocean. He had never been able to recover from losing Noatak, couldn’t take the chance of having a lover and them leaving him, too. After a pause, he realized that he knew nothing about the man before him, the brother he once loved practically a stranger now. How many years had he missed out on, milestones that Noatak reached and relationships he'd been in that Tarrlok never got to witness? He softly wondered out loud, “Do you?”

He was doing his best to block out his former lieutenant at the moment. “I used to,” Noatak muttered bitterly, and then silence fell over them again. Maybe one day he would tell Tarrlok about the son he once had, how close he was to having something good before it all fell apart. First he would apologize to Tarrlok for all the things he'd done, though. Taking away his little brother's bending was just the tip of the iceberg, even if the other held no misgivings over that, even if he was grateful deep down to have been freed from his curse. No, the wound deep beneath the surface had been inflicted by Noatak's betrayal, and had been festering for twenty-six years. He was supposed to protect Tarrlok, save Tarrlok, but instead Noatak hurt him and left him alone with their father. Tarrlok could take Yakone giving up on him, but not his big brother.

As haunted as Noatak was by that terrible day, he saw now how much it had shaped his brother; he had worried countless nights over what would happen to that sweet boy who had been his anchor in his absence. He realized that instead of withering from grief, Tarrlok at least outwardly pretended to be strong to mask his own feelings of inferiority, craved praise from the masses because he never got it again from the one person it most mattered from. Briefly he wondered when those bright blue eyes became so dull, if the lights had been beaten out, or had faded over time from neglect. Dwelling too much on it caused the agony of guilt to squeeze Noatak's heart; he would tell Tarrlok every day how much he regretted leaving him, how many times he cried missing him, until Tarrlok believed him.

“The two of us together again,” Noatak said with vigor and a grin, “there's nothing we can't do!”

The other's voice drew Tarrlok’s eyes back to his backside, and he answered less enthusiastically, “Yes, Noatak.”

“Noatak,” he snorted; the name sounded so foreign on his tongue. “I'd almost forgotten the sound of my own name.” The one he had given himself, he didn't realize how hollow his existence felt without it. Tarrlok heard the bitterness in his voice, and he averted his gaze as his chest grew heavy; he witnessed firsthand the pain it caused his brother to be deprived of his name, long ago. As much as Noatak wanted to deny it, his chasing of the happiness they felt before they were benders was futile, for they would never be the same. There was no going back from what they had done.

His line of sight had fallen on a generator and pair of kali sticks Tarrlok had recognized to belong to the lieutenant of The Equalists, and realized that he was just the back up plan, his spot was intended for someone more important. Not that it mattered to him, in the end; so badly he wanted to scream at and throttle his brother, to knock some sense into him, but Tarrlok didn't budge. To the side of the generator was a shelf full of electrical gloves, and after a moment of consideration he grabbed one as Noatak's back was still to him. Perhaps it would be better to humor the brother he once felt fondness for, and give him this one last moment before the end.

Slowly he uncapped the fuel tank closest to him; still Noatak stared at the horizon, blissfully unaware of Tarrlok’s actions. It wasn't driven by any spite, what he was about to do, even if Tarrlok’s love for his brother had died long ago. So many nights he wept as the family around him disintegrated, until he ran out of tears and could only manage dry sobs. There was once a time he even hated Noatak for abandoning him, for how lifeless his mother and father became after their favorite child left, but now he felt nothing but a sense of peace as he donned the electrical glove. They had changed too much, each into their own facsimile of Yakone; Noatak felt so far away, at the other end of a chasm, even though he was close enough where Tarrlok could discard the glove and close the distance between them with a hug, and Noatak would never let him go.

But he had made up his mind; this was the best ending for them, he thought, to leave this world that was never theirs together. Tarrlok resigned himself to his death, and as his hand hovered over the exposed tank he murmured, “It will be just like the good old days.” Noatak shed a tear as he listened to Tarrlok; that was all he ever wanted, to go back to the fields of snow under the endless summer sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I wasn't going to write a chapter for this scene, but since I was listening to this song https://youtu.be/S3omtCW3AkY when I first saw Noatak's and Tarrlok’s death, I felt like this would be a good way to pay homage to what first inspired me to write this fic. It's by no means finished, but I am going to take a break as I am getting burnt out and I want to work on some of my other projects. I may post revisions from time to time, but otherwise I'll return in the new year. Happy Holidays!


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